Caldreg calls out a prayer and blesses the knife, as a young man from his people pulls the goat across the circle. When he’s close, the creature is taken from him, the druid’s young apprentices dragging him by the horns, much to his bleating indignation. Beside me, Gwenlli cannot help but murmur to the creature in the marsh tongue,
“You are honoured, brother, so honoured.”
The goat butts away his captors and turns to her; in the brief moment we have together, our eyes meet and I whisper a prayer of welcome from the darkness. It is a moment of perfect stillness. Then, pulling his head back around, Caldreg slits his throat in one sharp movement, calling out his thanksgiving. The creature goes limp, blood pouring into bowl, as I watch its spirit turn again to Gwenlli, looking up at me. And again Gwenlli murmurs,
“You are honoured, dear brother, so honoured.”
I bend down and offer my hand, and slowly it moves towards me. I close my eyes as it enters the darkness of my soul, disappearing through me, as one of the apprentices hauls its body up onto the stone. The other lifts the bowl and moves with his teacher to the group of girls. They quiver, wide eyed in the firelight, as Caldreg dips his fingers into the bowl and, one by one, marks each girl’s breast with the blood, giving a blessing to each one for the fire-blessed night of passion they each hope will come.
On the other side of the fire, the young men have gathered. I make my way towards them, bidding them come closer. Gwenlli is at my side. She is little older then some of these boys, but this year she holds herself tall and independent as a priestess in training, standing upon the status of being my aid. I smile at her determination, but a part of me, longing for Eos, wishes I were as young as she, and that he were amongst this flock of boys.
In the firelight I sigh and look into their faces. Some are familiar to me, brothers and sons of my own community, some I have seen on the marshes and waterways, fishing or traveling from island to island. Each recoils from my gaze, except one. He is proud, strong and good looking, no more than sixteen summers old, and unaware that it is pride that might inspire my choosing.
I nod to Gwenlli, who steps into the group and takes his hand.
“What’s your name?” she whispers, bringing him forward to the great stone.
“Morfran,” he says nervously, still holding his head high, but looking into her face to see if really she is human or a marsh sprite that will enchant his soul away to lifetime of unimaginable pleasure, pleasure that is too often held excruciating just out of reach.
She and I exchange a smile.
“Are you ready for this?” I hear her say in the common tongue.
“Of course I am,” he mumbles, looking around the gathering who are again cheering and clapping.
“Don’t piss,” she whispers.
I look into her face. My quiet Gwenlli has more mischief in her than I knew.
He stares at her, terrified.
There is quiet around the circle as Caldreg’s apprentices hold the boy’s hands firmly against the stone. My hood hiding my face, my back to the fire, he will see nothing of my expression nor my humanity. He stares into the darkness of my face, doing all he can to hide his fear, determined to say nothing. Sianed passes me the blade and I draw it into my soul, blessing it with the darkness of the goddess who breathes within me. When I look up into his face, I know that I must not let her take control, guide me, my Lady, but know this is my blade. Let him feel your presence, for what is done is done in your name. Let him feel you, but let him feel me too . . .
I lean forward and, silently drawing him into the darkness, I kiss his mouth.
Then lifting the blade, I let the tip touch the muscled flesh beneath his shoulder.
Giving him a long breathless moment staring into the darkness of my face, I make the invocation and tear the blade across his skin. His squeal is immediately drowned out by the cries of the gathering, as drums roll into rhythms and hollering applause fills the air. I turn from him, closing my eyes to find my own breath, then face him once again. He is limp with shock, tears running down his face, but he is standing and determined. And again I smile as Gwenlli whispers,
“Well done, Morf.”
Sianed is drawing the other youngsters near to the stone, and each one, a little paler than before, steps towards me. Running my fingers across the boy’s wound, I mark each one with his blood.
~~~~~
“Would you take me to him, dear child?”
She smiles tenderly, “Of course, my Lady.”
The meadow is again filled with the noise of music and dancing, children running, people shouting and laughing, meadhorns raised and emptied, women shouting from cooking fires. In the centre, by the great stone, someone is skinning the goat to roast. Yet above us is the silence of a star-scattered sky. The full moon is shining. And through the clamour, I see Eos, sitting alone on a tree stump at the bottom of the slopes of Bryn Fyrtwyddon, as still and silent as the whitethorn beside him. His head is in his hands.
I call to his soul, Eosaidh?
Looking up, he sees me, Gwenlli at my side, and he stares into my soul.
As we approach, I touch Gwenlli’s hand, “Let us be, child. I will be alright.”
She bows and steps away.
I turn to the old tinner and wonder what to say.
“May I sit with you, Eos?”
He looks up into my face and, reaching out a hand, he says softly,
“Dear Vivi . . . ”
Chapter Ten
Sensuous Fruit of Love
(Eosaidh)
It is the morning of the whitethorn moon. Vivian has been busy for the past week preparing for the festival of the beginning of summer, and we have not spoken since we parted at the Red Spring. I have seen her in passing often as we have gone about our tasks, exchanging glances from far off, feeling heart's longing across a meadow or through a stand of trees. I pause for a few moments to rest from the swinging of the axe I have finally managed to repair, and survey the results of my labor, a high pile of wood that will find its way into tonight's bonfire. The morning sky is a soft blue, the first puffy white clouds of summer drift by. The thorn high on Wirrheal is at full bloom as if a white summer cloud were somehow reflected in the fresh green grass of the hillside. For a moment, I see in my heart the bright white linen bundle as it slowly sinks into the waters of the sacred spring, containing the precious blue shards of the cup of life.
Vivian has told me little of the fire festival. I think she expects me not to understand the sacredness of the Fires of Bel, the celebration of fertility that marks the beginning of summer in the marshes. She distrusts the laws of Adonai, which are so different from the laws of her Mother. And why should she not? Thou shalt have no other gods but me does not leave much room for her. Truth be told, it leaves little room for most human souls in the world. I think she fears Adonai. Not his power to destroy, but his power to change. And for the people of the marshes, change and destruction may perhaps be the same thing.
I do not know about Adonai, but I wish she would not fear me. For I am not, perhaps, the most typical subject of that warrior god from the Sinai desert. I have been too long among the Dumnoni, Parisii and Avernii of Gaul, the Macedonians and the Achaians, the Phoenicians, the Ephesians and the Egyptians and, always, the Romans. I know in my heart that Adonai exists. But even the tradition of my people recognizes Adonai and Ba'al to be the same word. I have seen too many people searching for God to believe that any one of them has found him as he really is.
But there is the rub. For Adonai is ‘he’. Until Vivi, I would not have believed an old Iuddic tinsmith from Cornualle could seek the Mother. The lad did, I think. Perhaps that's why Vivi cared for him enough to give him the cup. The lad knew, because his mother knew. And yet more, because of the Magdalene, whom some called ‘the beloved disciple’. And of all my race, perhaps the one who knows fullest is young Sarah whom I have not seen since Massalia, who is now nearly a woman herself.
What is it about this isle
that teaches the mind to wander so in paths of mystery? Fianna will come looking for me if I do not get the handcart and move this wood to the festival site!
~~~~~
At mid-afternoon, after stowing tools and bathing in the shallow waters, I make my way back toward the meadow. I pass the spot where once I had built a small prayer hut to remind me of the Temple in Jerusalem. After the committal of the cup at the Red Spring I took it down. Perhaps because I knew it would please Vivian, perhaps because I have learned that the Holy cannot be contained within a hut. I smile as, once again, I realize even my own scriptures have owned this truth.
I pass through the bluebell wood where yesterday I held Vivian while she cried for her son. Sadness still lingers under the boughs, though the scent of the flowers tempers that heavy emotion with a sense of hope.
I emerge from the wood into the meadow that leads down to the marshes. Instantly my heart is lifted by the sight! Where have all these people come from? In the center of the field is the great pile of wood I have helped supply, ready to be set ablaze. For a moment I feel the stiffness in my muscles and wonder that the central focus of this ancient celebration has been provided by my own axe. Nearby is the great stone, a hoary old whitethorn hovering over it as if to protect a fallen loved one. And all around, there are people! Hundreds, dressed in all the colors of the rainbow. And children! They are everywhere! They wheel and weave about one another, making preparations, like a great troupe of musicians tuning their instruments for a performance. Vivian stands quietly by the stone, her hand on the old thorn. She is lost in her thoughts, an island of stillness in the human sea.
The crowd slowly becomes quiet, forming a ring about the stone. I step back to the edge of the field to watch, for some reason not wishing to be seen. Vivian and a young man step into the circle, and I feel a pang of jealousy, wishing that I would be her partner in this sacred rite. No, he is not so very young. Indeed it is the druid, Caldreg, who is an elder. It is Vivi's agelessness that makes him seem youthful, or perhaps the ache in my bones. I have seen this druid on the island a time or two, but we have not met.
Then a truly young man, painted in woad, comes forth from the crowd carrying a burning torch. With a shout he thrusts it into the woodpile, which is instantly ablaze. I feel the heat in my own body, though I am not near enough to feel the flames. Drums around the circle begin their slow throb.
Following the gaze of the crowd, I turn to look at the top of Wirrheal where other flames arise in answer, sending the message of the Fire Festival across the countryside. Soon all of Britain will echo the celebration of this meadow. Vivian and Caldreg sing in concert and antiphon as the people bring offerings to the stone in honor of all their gods. They are the same offerings my people once brought in the wilderness: barley and honey; milk and fruit. But also the iron of the hills, whitethorn, salt, and many things I cannot recognize from here. In all the world human beings honor their gods with the same gifts. Why cannot they so honor one another?
Out of the general turmoil two circles emerge, one is of the young girls, the other of the boys, dancing around the fire, stepping to the center to drink from the mead horn and be blessed by Vivian or Caldreg. Around me, out here on the fringes, Fianna's little charges have been dancing, too; practicing for the year they will circle the fire. For a time I turn my attention to the little ones playing at the edge of the gathering.
When I look back, the circles are disbanding, bringing a lull to the ceremony. Vivian has disappeared somewhere. Men gather around Caldreg as if in a meeting, while cooking fires begin to appear around the meadow. It is time for the evening meal. Fianna comes over to where the little ones are playing around me.
"Go, little ones," she laughs, clapping at them. "Your families are waiting for you, go and find the feasting!" They all run off skipping through the grass. My eyes search the crowd, but Vivian is nowhere to be seen. Fianna steps to my side.
"It is a ritual, and her duty as the Lady, Eosaidh," she says, as if to reassure me that Vivian is not taken with the Druid. I struggle with my own thoughts: He is an Elder of his people, Eos! Yes, but he is nearly a generation younger than you! I smile and mutter something silly, looking down at my feet and nervously picking up a garland dropped by one of the little girls.
"You needn't be shy," Fianna smiles. "That a bond has grown between you is plain enough for all to see!" She looks up at the stars emerging in the growing dark. With a sweep of her hand she acknowledges the field of revelers and the great fire. "On a night like this, Eosaidh," she says, "It is not proper to be shy!" We both laugh out loud, but still I nervously finger the garland.
"Fianna," I venture.
"Yes?"
"She had no child that lived, other than her son?"
Fianna is instantly serious, knowing the deepness of my caring. Her eyes drop to the ground, and she takes a moment to answer.
"Not one," she says.
"How many did she lose, Fia?"
"Manann was her fifth."
Then we are silent, and I feel the nearness of Vivian come and go,
~~~~~
One drum marks a slow, steady beat. The people leave their meadow-hearths and gather around the great fire in the center. There, Vivian stands weaving a spell of song, and Caldreg approaches as if drawn, fearful, yet fascinated by her presence. The burning passion of his soul dances about the shadowy darkness of her mystery. It is as if the sun and moon circle each other. As the drum continues its beat they step to one another, and kiss. It is only a kiss, yet it feels like the birthing of the world. Again I feel the stab of jealousy, in my heart, in my loins. The whole crowd breaks into riotous song and dance. The young girls move to the center as Caldreg holds high a great knife that flashes in the firelight. Someone drags a goat into the circle. It cries out and kicks in all directions, frightened by the fire and the noise. Grabbing the goat by the horns, Caldreg twists its head around and in one motion slits its throat upon the stone.
I am no stranger to the sacrificing of goats. They are in more danger in the Temple in Jerusalem than on this meadow in Affalon. But I wonder if this is the only time in the cycle when any creature loses its life to a blade upon this island. In both places the sacrifice bears the meaning of life. But in Jerusalem it is the covering of human sin. Here, as Caldreg dips his hand in the blood and marks the breast of each young girl, it represents the fertility of the tribe, and prepares the girls for the wonder of discovery that lies before them. What is it like to be a young girl of the tribes, I wonder? To feel the hand of the druid, and the warmth of blood, caressing the flesh of my breast? What awakening of sexuality does that touch bring? What thrill of difference do I feel as I step back into the circle? Can it be, in the honoring of the gods, that it is not the gift that matters at all, but only the heart of the giver?
I have come that they might have life, the lad once said, and have it abundantly. The blood of bulls and goats is not meant for the forgiveness of sins.
Then a young man steps forward in front of Vivian, Gwenlli holding him by the hand and speaking softly to him. He is stripped to the waist. Vivian takes the great knife and holds it to her breast, and for a moment, I fear the worst. She leans forward to kiss him. The crowd is silent, waiting, watching. It is as if she were making love to him before the whole gathering, a powerful young woman without fear or inhibition. But when her hand moves it is only to draw the point of the blade across his chest. Again the whole meadow breaks into shouting and drumming, as Vivian draws her fingers across the bloody wound and marks each of the young men present.
But I am no longer a young man. No longer can I interest a woman who bears the sexual power of the Lady of Affalon. No longer do I walk in the realm of fecundity and fertility. It has been too long. I turn from the circle and walk up the slope toward the foot of Wirrheal, to sit, fittingly, on an old stump in the moonlight. The meadow is filled with music and dancing, but here it is quieter. I have turned from the celebration to stare at the great whitethorn that first we
lcomed me to the island. Its crown of white blossoms scatters the moonlight across the slopes of the hill. How much time passes I cannot tell.
~~~~~
In my head I hear her call to me, Eosaidh.
I turn and see her, with Gwenlli at her side. As they approach, she says something softly in the old tongue. Gwen bows, and turns away, going back to the celebration. Vivian takes the last steps toward me alone.
"May I sit with you, Eos?"
I look up into her face. Reaching out my hand to take hers I say softly, "Dear Vivi ..." and she comes to sit beside me. Still holding her hand, I put my other arm around her shoulders as if to shield her from the evening chill. But the evening is amazingly warm. She rests her head against me and I breathe in her closeness. For a while we are silent, listening to the drums in the meadow.
"I wondered if, hoped that, you would come to me," I say softly.
"Once I could not have," she answers. "But, after all these years, the fires and the choosing will go on well without me. This, being here, is my choice."
She turns her face to me and I can see the reflection of the full moon in her eyes. Can I even see the images of stars, or am I that hopelessly in love with this magical woman? I can feel the warmth of her breath on my face. Her lips part to speak, Eosaidh, and I am kissing her softly. A night wind through the thorn blows a shower of white petals around us.
The Apple and the Thorn Page 13