Solstice Song

by Colleen Charles

  After Caris told me what she knows of the famous Savie Starr, I realize I had no idea who I was dealing with at the time. Is there any hope of salvaging even a friendship, much less a relationship with this famous lass?

  “I know how you feel about music,” she says, wrapping her arms around her legs. “We have that in common.”

  “Aye, we do.” I rise from the hearth and sit in the other chair that also hasn’t moved since last night. “I see yer brought yer guitar. Mayhaps ‘tis yer turn to play somethin’ for me?”

  “Would you like me to?” A smile plays on her lush lips. She seems almost shy about it, despite my being told she performs before crowds of tens of thousands on practically a nightly basis. That thought makes me feel foolish for asking.

  “I would. But since yer make a livin’ at it, I suppose I’m being out of line askin’ yer to go to work. Without pay.”

  Before I’m finished, she smiles full on, her lovely red mouth curving into a white crescent of delight. It makes me smile in return. She’s truly a beauty, even more so without all the heavy makeup she wore in the newspaper photo. The room suddenly lacks oxygen, and I feel the need to gasp for air at the sight of her happiness. “Well, since you won’t take my money, perhaps singing for you is the only way I can repay you, Mr. O’Farrell.”

  “I’d like to hear yer call me Ronan.”

  She blinks her green eyes, then licks her lips as if tasting the sound before she speaks it. “Ronan.”

  The sound of my name on her lips is almost music enough. A shiver crawls up my spine and I clamp my mouth shut so I don’t invite her to my bed to finish what we started earlier in the day.

  “My friends call me Savie. You’re welcome to, if you’d like.”

  I nod, feeling this honor isn’t bestowed on many. “Savie, right.” The name echoes in my sparse abode, bouncing off the stones of the fireplace and the wooden beams above, rebounding into my ears like an incantation. “I like that.”

  “Good,” she nods, moving to rise from her chair.

  “I’ll fetch it,” I say in a rush, wanting to please her. “Yer me guest, after all.” I bring the guitar case over to her. I fall entranced as she strums a few experimental chords and adjusts the tuning pegs. I watch her bright painted nails and suddenly imagine them raking the skin of my back as I fuck her. I’m getting way ahead of myself. “Did yer always want to be a musician? What’s it like to perform in front of so many people?”

  She considers her answer as she strums her fingers over the strings. “Whether one person or ten thousand, or no one at all. The size of the crowd doesn’t make any difference. I sing because I was born to. I can’t imagine doing anything else.” She cradles the guitar in her arms like a lover. Jaysus, I want to be in her arms instead. “What about you? Did you always want to be a hermit?”

  “A what?”

  “A hermit.” Those lovely eyes land on me again. “Someone who lives in solitude, hidden away from others, by choice. Don’t you get lonely?”

  Her question catches me off-guard and guts me like a spear to the chest. Thoughts of loneliness have only been a recent phenomenon for me, but one that grows stronger with each passing season lately. “Aye, sometimes.”

  Her green gaze locks with mine for a glorious second as I wonder what it would feel like to claim this independent and fiery woman as my wife. “I wrote a song about that,” she says. “It goes like this.”

  She plays me a slow ballad with haunting chords, yet with an uplifting melody and words of love and loss and hopefulness. Her voice rings true, unlike any I’d ever heard before. Sweet and clear, like it comes from the elements themselves, of air and water and earth.

  I can’t even describe the sensations it evokes deep within my soul, because I’ve never experienced anything like them before. I’ve felt a mix of rapture in communing with nature, and unity with my grove at our rituals, but nothing like this. Like the universe itself is moving within me. I feel paralyzed in my chair.

  All too soon, the song’s over. She looks at me expectantly, but my tongue feels thick and twisted in my mouth. I can’t answer.

  Her shoulders fall. “Didn’t you like it?”

  “Very much, I did,” I finally manage to say. It’s the most lilting, honest thing I’ve ever heard. “Yer ‘av an incredible voice. Yer must bring yer audiences to tears.”

  She smiles, and I easily could become addicted to the expression on her face. “Sometimes. But that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Making your audience feel something?”

  I nod in understanding. “Aye. Too true.”

  “So, tell me about Wintervale. Your sister seems excited about the Yule. Why aren’t there any Christmas trees around?”

  I take a deep breath, knowing this will be a turning point. She’s either going to accept me for who I am, or she won’t. And if she doesn’t, it could turn bleak…just like my past experiences with townies.

  “We don’t celebrate Christmas in Wintervale. We celebrate the Yule, the eighth and most important interval of the Wheel of the Year. It’s far older than Christmas, so it is. Christmas is just a convenient Christian appellation for an already sacred celebration that’s very, very ancient.”

  Savie hugs her guitar like a long-lost child as she listens. For once, I see no judgment in her verdant eyes. “Wheel of the Year? So, Yule doesn’t mean Christmas at all? No presents, or carols, or Santa in his sleigh?”

  I shake my head. “Father Christmas definitely makes nay stops here.”

  Her brow wrinkles in thought. “So how do you celebrate Yule then, exactly?”

  Here we go…

  “We hold a Solstice Festival. Singin’, dancin’, lots of food. On December twenty-first, we light the Yule log, and celebrate Alban Arthan, the Light of Arthur. Bringin’ a new year and new life to the world at its darkest time.”

  “You mean the longest night of the year? And Arthur, as in King Arthur?” she asks, her pretty mouth falling slightly open. “And Guinevere?”

  I nod. “Right on both counts. The Winter Solstice. The time of death and rebirth. The sun journeys steadily away from us after midsummer. The ancients had nay certainty that it would return each year, to bring crops back to life and animals back to the land. They made offerin’s to the Earth on the darkest day, to speed its renewal. They also built special structures that captured the first light of dawn on the new day, provin’ it has returned to connect with the Earth once again.”

  “Stonehenge,” she says, her emerald eyes widening with awe and wonder. “Like in Outlander?”

  Outlander? What is that?

  “Stonehenge is one place, but ‘tis not the first. The oldest solstice site is not far from here, called Newgrange.”

  “Newgrange? Is that where you hold your festival? Does it have giant stones in a circle too?”

  “I wish we could hold our festival there, but ‘tis full of tourists nowadays. And there’s no stones. Newgrange is an underground chamber, datin’ back almost five thousand years.”

  “A five-thousand-year-old cave? Why would you go underground in order to see the sun? That doesn’t make sense.”

  I chuckle, wishing I had a photograph to show her. “It has a special aperture. Nay one knows how ‘twas erected in exactly the right spot, but when the sun rises on the next day, it shines directly through it and illuminates the whole chamber, signifyin’ the ‘matin’’ of the sun and the Earth, so to speak.”

  “So, you’re not Catholics…not even Christians?” She appears to search for the word. “You’re…pagans?”

  I sense panic and confusion rising in her. Revealing my druid ways usually does have that effect, not that I’ve told many outsiders in my life. I don’t have to. I’ve lived in Wintervale since my birth. Paganism is as old and earthy as Mother Nature herself, but for some, it seems to bring to mind the evil of the black arts and all that entails. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  “Some call it that, tis true. All ‘pagan’ really means is bel
iefs that pre-date Christianity. If yer think about it, we’re the first religion, if religion means a code of ethics, and personal spiritualism. Worshipin’ nature, the earth, the elements, the light and the dark. All the others are just recent inventions meant to generate profit for their leaders.”

  She frowns, still holding tight to her guitar. “That’s not true. Religious groups do humanitarian work. Raise funds for worthy causes. What does yours do? Who’s your leader? What are you called?”

  I’m glad I’m being more acquainted with her way of speaking or all of her questions would have fallen on uncertain ears.

  “Well, our community is called a grove. Of the Wintervale grove, I am the leader. I am part of the order of the Bard. We practice druidry.”

  She looks stunned but fascinated at the same time. “Druids,” she repeats as if testing the word. “It’s interesting and unique for sure.”

  “Does that thought frighten yer?”

  Savie’s lips rise into a thoughtful pout. “No,” she says in a voice just above a whisper. I’ve never felt more accepted by an outsider. “As long as you don’t sacrifice baby goats wearing pajamas. Or vestal virgins. But I want to know more. My Nana Aislan was born in Ireland. I remember her telling stories, but my mother always discouraged her. Told me not to listen to her nonsense. It was all very mysterious to me. But I heard her say that word. Druid. And I know that Bard means someone of artistic talent.”

  “It does. Aislan is a very Irish name. So, you’re part Irish, then.” I press my palms together. “Fáilte abhaile. Welcome home.”

  She gives me a strange look, then laughs, a beautiful lilting sound that seems to touch my very soul in a dark recess that’s never seen the light. “I never thought of myself as an Irishwoman. Is that Gaelic? It sounds like a beautiful language.”

  I nod. “We don’t speak it regularly. Sometimes at rituals, but all things lose their shine with age.”

  “Druid rituals?” Apprehension returns to her voice, and my heart sinks to my toes. Not now when everything is going so well. “You really have those? What are they like? Remember, if goats are involved, leave that part out.”

  I turn away to tend the fire, adding another piece of wood. Goats wearing pajamas? I can’t even fathom it. Americans are a strange lot, so they are. I’m not sure she’s ready to hear everything. Outsiders are quick to judge what they don’t understand. It will take time if I want to do it right.

  “There are different ones for different times of the year. As I say, there are eight intervals, each about six weeks long, which complete the cycle of the Wheel. Now we are at Yule, celebratin’ Alban Arthur, the return of the light. One such ritual of Alban Arthan is the wassail.”

  “I’ve heard that word too. What does it mean?”

  “A wassail is a…sort of punch, or potion if you’d like to think of it that way. ‘Tis brewed with herbs and seeds and fruit, sometimes milk. All things that the land and animals give us throughout the year, mixed in a bowl. One of the members of our grove will cast the mixture at the edge of a field, or the base of a tree. ‘Tis an offerin’ of nourishment to the land, to make it become fertile and begin to grow again. It doesn’t actually ‘av any effect as the ancients thought. The rituals are symbolic.” I glance over my shoulder to judge her reaction. The flickering flames reflect back within the depths of her eyes. An overwhelming urge to touch her satiny skin forces me to fist my hand to keep from reaching out.

  “The land gives you so much, doesn’t it?” she says after a thoughtful moment. “So, you give back to the land. That’s very poetic. It’s a beautiful sentiment, really.”

  “Aye,” I say, stirring the fire. My beliefs fill me with pride.

  “And you really believe in it, don’t you? It’s important to you.”

  “’Tis our way.” I set down the poker and return to sit beside her. “But ‘tis getting’ on. I should let yer be getting’ some kip. Yer can ‘av the bedroom. I’ll take the loft.”

  “You do tell some interesting bedtime stories, Ronan. And I’m beginning to understand your way of speaking better in such a short time.”

  “Ach.” I laugh, wishing she’d beg me to stay with her. Beg me to carry her to the bed and make love to her by the light of the silvery moon. She doesn’t. “Better than Nana Aislan’s, I trust?”

  “Much.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Savannah

  I rise early to make sure I’m ready if Mel comes for me. Other than the usual pot of tea and some muffins Caris baked that he’d left on the table, Ronan is nowhere to be seen. It’s still dark out, and my heart pumps with a little unwelcome worry for him. Where could he go at such an early hour? I’d left him sitting by the fire when I went to bed.

  But since I have nowhere to go myself or any way to get there if I did, I nibble on a muffin and sip my tea, thinking about the turn of the seasons. It’s amazing how we take it for granted that spring will come, crops will always grow again, and there will never be a shortage of animals in the fields or water to drink.

  One look at the news proves that those ideals aren’t always true. The powers that be claim global warming is shifting the weather patterns, places receiving snow for the first time in recorded history. More animal species become extinct every day, and there are severe water crises all over the world, even in the US. What if a return to ancient ways and having reverence for Mother Nature like these people do, could reverse all of that?

  I struggle to take it all in, Ronan’s confessions about paganism and sacrificial rituals. I begin to wonder if I’m dreaming some of it, conjuring it up because I want it to be true and have meaning. But wispy, vague memories of things my Nana Aislan said all those years ago ring true as Ronan explained his druidic rituals.

  I get the impression from my mom that she thinks Nana’s ancestors were some kind of naked, fire-dancing heathens who practiced witchcraft, though she never said it to my face. She seemed to just want to pretend it didn’t exist, and therefore never talked about it. But I know differently now. And not only does Ronan practice this non-Christian religion, but the whole town of Wintervale does as well.

  I called it a ‘godforsaken hamlet,’ not knowing how close to the bullseye that statement hits. It dawns on me that this culture—this religion—is part of my own heritage. Good heavens, these people could even be my distant relatives.

  I haven’t been much for celebrating Christmas myself. I’m always touring, or doing some kind of benefit concert at this time of year. Church wasn’t a big influence on my family growing up back in Northern California either. The concepts of druidism fascinate me. If I could actually get a Wi-Fi signal I’d research it a bit more. I’ve always thought of myself as a fleeting Christian. But what if I believed something else entirely?

  I rise from the table and fetch Helen from her case. The idea strikes me like a cannonball to the chest, so words and music began to swirl in my brain. I have to get them down while they’re clear. The sun peeks above the horizon and into a cloudless sky, and as I look out the front window, it appears the weather has improved, melting the majority of the snow. Birds flit about, and their calls add inspiration for the song that already brews inside me.

  A solstice song.

  I put on my coat and scarf and head out to the small porch that Ronan cleared of snow yesterday. My breath turns to vapor in the air despite the milder temperature, and I sit down on the hand-hewn wooden bench against the wall cradling Helen in my lap. Soft pinks and blues streak upward from the horizon.

  I breathe deeply and catch the scent of wood smoke and forest pine, and of damp earth and leaves imprisoned under the sudden snowfall awakening underneath the rising sun. All of it mixes together to form an invigorating wild fragrance, one that could never be contained in a bottle or duplicated anywhere else but in this place. So, I’ll capture it with music instead.

  My fingers dance across Helen’s strings, the notes meshing together in a tune that bespeaks all these new thoughts and feelings. They�
��ve also woven a message to my mom, telling her what I’ve learned of Nana’s ways, and that they’re not something to be hidden, but to be accepted and appreciated. Lauded even. A chorus and refrain flow effortlessly from my instrument, and after a few minutes, I realize I’ve already created parts of the melody before, on the bus as we waited nervously for help to arrive. It appears the muses were already at work in my subconscious even then.

  The lyrics tumble about along with the music, but I don’t have a pen or paper. I reach in my coat pocket for my phone, which still has nearly a full charge. I perch it atop a pile of split logs and set it to video record. I start the chord progression over from the beginning, speaking the melody in words.

  By the Light of Arthur here I stand

  The long night as cold as my heart

  Winter lifts the veil, giving way to the spring

  Tearing the truth of my past apart

  My fingers began to tingle with numbness as I play the chords over and over, fitting in the lyrics as they spill from my lips. Rarely has a composition come together so quickly for me. This tiny, mysterious vale seems to inspire me at the same time it holds me a virtual captive. I’m so swept up in my creative process that I barely notice when Ronan appears from inside the cottage and comes to sit on the bench next to me.

  Suddenly, the chords come alive with a dual sound, the timbre of two disparate instruments blending in perfect harmony. I stop singing to glance sideways at Ronan. He’s rolled the beautiful Irish harp I’ve been admiring out with him and follows my lead in perfect time, matching every chord without a mistake. Our eyes lock, but he simply smiles and nods, encouraging me to continue.

  I’m awestruck at the extraordinary ear he displays. I’ve worked with nearly every session musician in the US, and this unknown, untrained man from the middle of bumfuck nowhere has them all beat. I run through the chorus again, and to my amazement, on the next repeat, Ronan adds his rich baritone voice to mine, singing a countermelody in perfect pitch, improvising on the fly. He’s incredible, and I’m truly floored. I’ve never heard so much natural talent.