by Robin Morgan
But Petronilla de Meath—stooping to clip fresh mint leaves for tea from the herb garden just outside the kitchen door—was not so easily distracted. She stood upright again and sighed, staring off into space, indifferent to the fragrant sprigs in her hand. Well in the distance, beyond the sunlit gardens and, further on, the paddocks, a small mass of clouds let loose a local rainfall; it advanced slowly, as a silvery column of mist, across the heath. But Petronilla did not notice it. She found herself imagining the Bishop of Ossory huddled in consultation with Father Donnan of Wexford Parish. One face was florid and fleshy, the other bony and pinched: greed complementing denial. In her mind’s eye, these uneasy allies were conspiring with a common purpose as well as a common power. And despite Alyce Kyteler’s reassurances, she was not consoled.
VI
THE SABBAT CIRCLE
IT WAS LUGNASAD EVE, the night of the Sabbat.
The heath was dimming toward summer darkness as Alyce Kyteler dressed herself. She did so slowly, with attention to each detail. Having dismissed her maidservants, she had bathed in warm water scented with rose petals, then blotted herself with a thin sheet of fine wool. She had brushed her damp long hair dry until it flamed in the candlelight, then left it hanging loose. Finally, standing alone and naked in her turret chamber, lit by the gleam of three candles—one red, one white, one black—she ceremonially anointed herself with Sabbat Oil.
“Blessed be my brain, that I may conceive of my own power,” she whispered, touching the tip of her left-hand third finger first to the small clay bowl filled with heated oil, then to her forehead.
“Blessed be my breast, that I may give nurturance,” she continued, again touching her fingertip to the liquid gold and then to each nipple point and to the hollow between her breasts where her heart had begun to pulse more strongly with excitement.
“Blessed be my womb, that I may create what I choose to create,” she murmured, touching the warm oil to her naked belly.
“Blessed be my knees, that I may bend so as not to break.” She grazed each kneecap with the oil, which had begun to give off the fragrance of the herbs and essences steeping in it: flakes of saffron, poplar leaves, hemlock, moonwort, cinquefoil, crushed almonds.…
“Blessed be my feet, that I may walk in the path of my highest will.” She anointed the arch of each bare foot.
Then she stood still, the Five-fold Blessing complete, and inhaled the perfume of her own body.
Moving deliberately, she slipped into loose linen trousers of her own design and Annota Lange’s tailoring, similar to but less restricting than the hose and breeches men wore. Then she donned a pleated linen gown with slender wrist-length sleeves, the whole dyed a rich strawberry red. She slid over her head a shorter crimson silk tunic embroidered at its collar and its hem in gold thread, with tiny pomegranates exquisitely worked in scarlet against the gold—Annota’s artistry again. Last came an open, sleeveless, light surcoat of unbleached linen the colour of young wheat. Then she stepped into the soft leather soles of her best sandals, and strapped the thongs around her ankles. The Ritual Jewels would come later. For now, she took up a casket of rosewood inlaid with red enamel, lovingly carved with runes surrounded by spirals, cones, and whorls—the recurring images of Celtic art. With this secured under one arm and her graceful but stout ash staff in the other hand, Alyce was ready. She emerged from her turret chamber and descended the Great Stairs to join the others for the procession to the Cromlech.
It was a perfect summer night, clear and balmy, with the full moon agleam so that people barely needed their staffs to aid them in making their way across the fields. Leading the column from the castle to the Covenstead, Alyce smiled to herself at how foolish were Church accusations about witches flying on broomsticks and staffs. Let a priest try walking over the fields on a moonless night, she thought with grim amusement, lit only by candles carried in hollowed-out gourds as makeshift lanterns; let a priest move across hillocks and rabbit holes and other wee treacheries underfoot—and see if he can manage not to break his neck without something sturdy on which to lean. Although she did have to admit to herself that a sabbat made her so light-headed with pleasure she felt almost air-borne. Each time she approached a Ritual, she did so recalling in her heart the passwords with which she, like every Neophyte, had long ago entered her first Circle: Perfect love and perfect trust.
From all directions, people were moving across the heath, approaching the Covenstead. As they converged at the gently sloping mound inside the curve of standing stones, they embraced, their calls of “Merry Meet!” ringing through the night’s stillness. Children scampered about, eager to show off their holy-day finery. Familiars and family pets—cats, dogs, now and then a lamb, a kid, or a tame robin or wren—circled, sniffed, perched, and were vocal in adding their various greetings.
Finally, when everyone seemed present, when the feast had been assembled but not yet unpacked from the hammocks and baskets of transport, when the infants had been bedded down cozily on quilts and the children had settled from frenzy to mere delirium, Alyce signaled to William.
That young man was torn between nervousness (about performing well in the dances), pride (over his dashing new leather hose), longing (that Maeve Payne would notice how well the hose set off his calf muscles), and jealousy (that she was watching Robert twirl his new mantle about). Consequently, he didn’t notice his mother’s signal until she repeated it: a second, firmer nod of her head, this time accompanied by a sharp look. Sheepishly, he drew from its silk wrappings the Horn of Lugnasad.
Three blasts young William blew upon the curved bronze throat of the trumpet, slow and stately—and something about the instrument transformed his breath into three calls, each one primeval, vibrating with mystery.
At the first call, the entire company, including the animals, fell silent.
At the second, they arranged themselves in a circle around the heap of pear and ash logs layered over straw.
At the third, Alyce Kyteler appeared, taking up her position on the southern point of the Circle. She bent and placed her staff at her feet. A sigh of satisfaction rose from the crowd, in welcome of their High Priestess.
She stood before a low stone altar—a broad, flat rock resting on two upright plinths, a smaller version of the great dolmen towering behind her, that massive capstone balanced on twin stone pillars. On the altar sat the casket, its red enamel seeming to glow in the moonlight. Alyce opened the box, and a low murmur of expectation rippled around the Circle. One by one, she brought forth her Tools of Art.
The High Priestess’s Necklace she raised in dedication to the moon, then fastened around her throat: a crescent torc, a massive collar of thinly hammered gold incised with a rim of interhatched triangles. It framed her face like a ruff of light, giving off moonglow from above and her own flush from within. This was the Lunula.
Next she lifted the Talismanic Ring, its bevelled crystal stone winking like a star caught and clasped between the jaws of two serpents—one gold, one silver—whose intertwined bodies comprised the ring itself. This she slid onto the third finger of her left hand. This was the Ring.
A plain length of braided red yarn came next, to be wound and knotted about her waist. This was the Cord to bind the spells.
Then came the Moon Helmet of the High Priestess, its skullcap of burnished gold forming the base for two silver crescent points that arched upward. This was the Crown.
The other Tools appeared, more and more swiftly, as if in time to the quickening drum and tambour rhythms beat out by Will Payn.
A white cloth of fine linen, embroidered with a red and black Pentacle—the encircled five-pointed star—was laid directly on the altar stone.
The Bell, a small masterpiece of bossed silver with filigree of thistles and wild roses, was placed on the cloth.
The three-legged copper Brazier was then stood atop the stone. It would be lit with Elf-fire—flame struck from no metals—and sprinkled with incense, so that aromatic clouds wafted a
cross the assembly.
The Athame, gleaming in its amber-studded scabbard, was placed upon the altar.
Then the last two, most powerful Tools of all, were brought forth.
With a loving touch, the High Priestess lifted her book shrine, its compartments of yew-wood nested inside silver that was nested inside niello nested inside bronze, all embracing her Grimoire, the volume of bound parchment leaves that comprised her notes, recipes, rituals, cures, meditations, and spells. This contained both personal and ritual secret lore, knowledge passed on and added to, Witch to Witch, generation to generation, from time before understanding—since, it was said, the Blessed Days of the legendary southern isles of Krete or Thera, called by some Atlanthis. This was her Book of Shadows. She set it at the corner of the triangular stone, to one side of the cloth.
Last came a small three-footed bowl of silver, rimmed with red gold and inlaid with black enamel. This was placed carefully on the Pentacle cloth, facing north. Here was the Cup.
It was the consecrated Cup of the Witches, the vessel of a hundred names: Cauldron of Cerridwen to the Welsh; to the English, Gwyneviere’s Chalice; to the Christians, The Grail.
The High Priestess lifted a flagon and poured an arc of elderberry wine into the silver Cup.
She rang the Bell three times. The Coven held its collective breath as if in a single lung.
Then Alyce the Priestess grasped the Elf-fire taper offered her by Alyce the blacksmith. Touching the wick’s spark first to the Brazier, she raised it high—and then with one swift movement cast it at the pyre. There was nothing. Then there was a feather of smoke, then a flicker spreading to sporadic flames, then a sudden rush of heat, and the lit bonfire blossomed heavenward.
“All mortal presences not Seekers! Leave now, or never enter here this night,” the Priestess cried her warning.
No one departed.
Instead, one by one, each member of the assembly came forward and dipped her or his candle into the central blaze. The whole Circle sprang into clarity, a wreath of faces reflecting the light.
“Spirits of Air, we welcome thee!” Alyce’s voice chimed through the silence. The entire assembly turned to the east, and Petronilla de Meath, acting as Coven Maiden, walked to that point of the Circle, bearing the Brazier now billowing its plumes of incense, in honour of the element of air. At the eastern point she set it down.
“Spirits of Fire, we welcome thee!” cried the Priestess. And the company turned to face the southern point of their round, where Alyce herself lit a torch from the bonfire and thrust it into a crevice in the towering stone behind her, one of the thirteen that loomed protectively around the frail human inner ring.
“Spirits of Water, we welcome thee!” she called. And watched with pride how a well-practiced little Sara, after a glance of reassurance from Petronilla, toddled diligently to the western point of the Circle, carefully bearing a wooden beaker of water dipped from the River Nore no earlier than dawn of that same day. Annota Lange, standing near the western edge, helped Sara put the beaker down without spilling a drop, after which the small celebrant beamed and hopped up and down at her own success—then suddenly was overcome with shyness and raced back to bury her face in her mother’s skirts.
“Spirits of Earth, we welcome thee!” Alyce’s voice rang out once more. Her son William stood forth at the north point, opposite from his mother, representing for this night young Lugh himself, the Shining One—Son, Brother, and Consort of the Goddess. He knelt, placing there a polished oval rock shaped like a stone egg, over which he poured a handful of salt, as symbol for the earth.
Slowly Alyce Kyteler drew the Athame from its scabbard. She held it before her, its point aimed downward toward the earth, as she stepped to the Circle’s outer perimeter and, muttering softly, began to glide around it, like a fuse burning behind the backs of those gathered facing the center, enclosing them. When she reappeared to her people at the southernmost point, she sheathed the Athame, and rang the Bell again three times.
“The Circle is sealed,” she proclaimed. “We stand in Sacred Space.”
The night itself seemed to pause.
In the forest that ringed the heath, owls halted their pursuit and hares checked their flight. The breeze fell still.…
How long did they stand there, hand in hand? What has time, or even timelessness, to do with such a moment? All the time or timelessness that mortals can imagine strains simply toward the moment when hands clasp against the night. They stood there long enough to reassure the wood creatures who ventured to the heath’s edge, watching the scene with unalarmed curiosity, furred and feathered heads cocked to peer at this distant circle of other animals, all clad in sunset colours, their flower-garlanded heads nodding and murmuring to one another, sometimes together, sometimes individually; their upright animal bodies sometimes swaying as one, like a living garland of human flowers encircling the uncombed flames that shook themselves out, wind-tousled, at the center.
Now the people stood, arms linked, chanting to raise the Cone of Power—their words pealing in unison as if from the vaulted splendour of a single throat, resounding in waves through the charged air.
Danu, Macha, Badb, Morrigan, Cailleach, Brigid, Hertha, Artis, Astarte, Diann, Sybil, Tana, Hecate, Kore, Lillit, Andred, Rhiannon, Magog, Eryn, Scotia … the Names of the Goddess breathed through the forest, a freshet of energy.…
Evoe! Evo Kore!… Night of the Waiting, between the first ripeness and the late harvest.… Days of the tall wheat, the graceful grain leaning into sweet summer winds.… As the Moon waxes in the Letter Tinne, as the star of Red Belligerence rises.… As this is the time of the Compact, the Ritual, the Door.…
Clouds of incense turned incandescent by the moon’s rays rose in puffs and streaks, silver flowers of fragrance nodding on silver stems of air.
… Chant the Word and let it free: as my Will, so mote it be! Do what thou wilt, an it harm none! For the Law of Three will return to you whatever you send against another thricefold.… Deflect all harm.… Protect. Protect. Protect.…
The moon was now poised directly above the Circle, as if to listen to these observers of The Old Ways name Her waxing and waning. And so they did, murmuring The Charge of the Goddess:
Hear My words and know Me.
You call me by a thousand Names, uttering yourselves.
You call Me Eternal Maiden.
You call Me Great Mother.
You call Me Ancient Chaos.
Moon, I answer you, my opening and closing eye, the regenerating shape, the Possibility. This to remind you that You are yourself The Virgin, born always now, new, capable of all invention and all creation.
Lotus, I answer you, lily, corn-poppy, centripetal rose: the Choice. This to remind you that You are yourself The Mother, who unravels from Her own body, brain, and spirit each thread of the net that sustains You.
Earthquake, I answer you, flood and volcano flow: the Warning. This to remind you that You are yourself The Old One who holds the Key, The Ancient who knows the secrets that you know not yet you know, The Crone to whom all things return.
So shall I be the Goddess with No Name, The Nemesis, shrouded in Mystery, yet recognized in every heart.
Whenever ye have need, then shall ye assemble. To thee will I teach things yet unknown.
First, ye shall be free of all slaveries. Ye shall dance, sing, feast. Ye shall make music and praise and love. For Mine is the spirit’s ecstasy. But Mine also is the joy on earth.
Love unto all things is My law. Keep pure your highest desires. Let naught stop you nor turn you aside.
Know that I am the Universe that ever spins.
My feet stamp on the brown earth, dancing, My breasts bring forth the milk of reasoning thought. My throat sings low the thunder. From Me springs all life, all death. I am rain-rush and mud-suck, sun-sear and drought-dust. I am the tidal ebb. I am the tidal wave.
I am Form.
I am Energy.
I am the Abyss from which all
things proceed, to which all things return.
I am the rapture of being. I am the rapture of nonbeing.
Call into thy soul. Hear and know Me. Offend Me not with sacrifice or bargaining. Venerate Me only with a heart in gladness, never in fear.
For behold, all acts of love and pleasure are My Rituals. Therefore, let there be beauty and strength, power and compassion, honour and humility, mirth and reverence within you. And you who wouldst yearn and search for Me, know that thy seeking and yearning will avail thee not, unless thou knowest the Mystery: If that which thou seekest thou findest not within thee, thou wilt never find it without thee.
For behold. I have been with thee from the Beginning.
And I await thee now.
The stars seemed to freeze and focus, unblinking for a moment in their cosmic indifference, as if gazing across the empty vastness to this shred of matter, a watery world where on a small island a knot of mortal intelligences stood concentrating their powers.
Then a familiar voice rang out.
“Spirits of Air, we thank thee.”
This time the entire assembly echoed gratitude.
“Spirits of Fire, we thank thee.” Again the people’s chorus.
“Spirits of Water, we thank thee. Spirits of Earth, we thank thee.” And again the community.
“Mother, make of each of us a safe and secret island, sacred unto Thee. Mother make and keep us whole. Mother, make and keep us free.”
This from Alyce, as she lifted the Cup and sipped the first drops of ceremonial wine. Then she passed it to her left, saying as she did so, “The blood of the Old Ones courses our veins. The Forms pass. The Circle remains.”
Then Petronilla de Meath as Coven Maiden approached the altar, bearing a tray of crescent cakes. Alyce bowed to her in tribute, then broke the first cake, ate, and passed the tray to her left. One by one, each member of the Circle drank and ate, murmuring, “Blessed Be grape and grain,” then passing along the Cup and the cakes with the words, “Blessed Be thee and me.”