I met the author of King Arthur’s Children: A Study in Fiction and Tradition, Tyler R. Tichelaar, Ph.D., while searching online for other Arthurian enthusiasts. When he asked me if I would review his new book, I jumped at the chance.
The book’s title would certainly make me pick it up off a shelf, but it doesn’t do the work justice. This interesting, impeccably researched book profiles several possible sons of Arthur, but also discusses the circumstances in various traditions influencing the actions of Guinevere, Lancelot and Constantine, as well as possible reasons for and outcomes of the battle of Camlann. Interesting twists to the legends explained in this book include:
- Lancelot and Mordred may have been twins.
- In some traditions, King Arthur, like the Biblical King Herod, has all the children born around the same time as Mordred drowned.
- Mordred was not always evil; he was revered in Welsh and some Scottish tales.
- Guinevere took many other lovers besides Lancelot, including several Knights of the Round, depending on the source.
- The battle of Camlann may have been written as a tragedy to make the legends more interesting and memorable.
- Mordred may have lived after Camlann or had sons who did.
King Arthur’s Children is broken up into three sections. The first discusses three possible sons of Arthur in various stories that make up the Welsh collection known as The Mabinogion. These are the likely illegitimate Gwydre; Amr, the child of Arthur’s first wife or mistress/concubine; and Llacheu, who is also mentioned the 10th century poem “Black Book of Carmarthen.” Tichelaar posits that if a historical King Arthur ever existed and had sons, these three are the most likely and were probably later combined to turn history into legend.
Part two of the book is devoted to Arthur’s most famous son, Mordred, who actually first appeared in Arthurian legend without reference to his relationship to Arthur and then as Arthur’s nephew. Only later did he become the son spawned by incest we know today. (Tichelaar’s section on incest in the legends is uncomfortable to read, but clearly illustrates the reasons why it was once a less taboo subject.) Tichelaar does a remarkable job of showing the dizzying number of ways in which Mordred may have been influenced by or have influenced his Welsh counterparts from part 1. This is also the section where he goes into other Arthurian characters and how they may or may not have been related to Mordred. He then studies the honorable Mordred in Welsh legend, his vacillating virtue among the Scots, and the more sympathetic treatment given him by modern writers.
The conclusion to this section is the one weak spot in the book. Here, Tichelaar’s fascination with genealogy draws him away from his main subject into two chapters on how the English Royal Family and the Scottish clan Campbell both have tried to claim succession from King Arthur. I can see why Tichelaar included this – because by claiming to be descendants, these groups could arguably be King Arthur’s children – but I feel like the discussion of their forced (and possibly faked) lineage distracts from the overall point and flow of the book. However, if you’re a genealogy buff, you’ll probably like this section.
The final part of the book details how King Arthur’s children were handled by medieval, Renaissance and modern writers. Here, Tichelaar does a great job of summarizing works most people probably haven’t read or even had access to, and explaining how each successive generation of writers has added to the legend. Interestingly, he points out that the most recent writers are more likely to invent new children, especially daughters. He also gives a small preview of his own forthcoming work of fiction, King Arthur’s Legacy.
All in all, I really enjoyed this book and am proud to be able to include it on my list of resources for my contribution to the legends. King Arthur’s Children is of great value mainly because it expertly explores an area of Arthurian legend that has not (at least to my knowledge) been widely researched before. I would recommend it to anyone who already has solid knowledge of Arthurian legend. To get the most out of it you need a fairly strong background in the legends and at least a cursory knowledge of Welsh legend. My studies of Welsh legend are rudimentary, so some of his comparisons between these and Arthurian legends went over my head. But I’m sure others will be able to better appreciate them.
While Tichelaar plays with (and yearns for) the idea that King Arthur’s bloodline may still exist today, he makes one of his most moving points in reference to the always changing nature of the legends, stating: “Anyone who would be a descendant of King Arthur need not have a fifteen hundred-year-old pedigree to prove it; we need to tell the tales about Arthur, and when people hear these stories, he will then live on in their hearts and his line and descendants will continue to grow” (vi). I, for one, am proud to call myself a daughter of King Arthur in that capacity.
My vision of Avalon. See bottom of this post for explanation of this image. Image created by and copyright held by the author. Please email before using.
When I originally conceived this series of Avalon posts (part 1, part 2), I planned to include a deleted scene from my first book to give you the back story. But now I’m saving deleted scenes for after the book is published – as bonus material – because, well, they were deleted for a reason. And then when I wrote out the back story in its entirety, I realized I had a partial synopsis for another potential book on my hands, so I can’t give you as much detail as I really want to. Without that detail, it be seen as similar to that of other authors. But here’s what I can say:
The Avalon in my books has its roots in the enigmatic island of Atlantis. Its leaders and priests saw the disaster that was to come just in time to load up a few ships with people and supplies. After a perilous journey, one group landed on the western coast of what would come to be known as Britain.
There they did their best to replicate their lives on Atlantis, but found that their power was not nearly as strong. Still, they did what they could, learning from the native people, raising stone circles along the ley lines and carefully preserving the ways of their homeland. This mix of native and Atlantian beliefs eventually formed the religion of the Druids. (This is only for my books, not my true belief in the origins of Druidism.) As the population grew and some of the people became restless, groups set off to form new communities in other parts of Britain and as far away as Brittany.
Even the beginning of the Roman occupation meant little change for the descendants of Atlantis. But slowly, they began sensing a threat. The Romans were jealous of the power the Druids held as judges and priests, and became increasing hostile. So, the Druids retreated to a small island called Mona, just off the coast of the kingdom of Gwynedd (Wales).
In 65 AD, everything changed. The Roman governor, Paulinas, who was well-known to be poisoned by a desire for power, was greatly angered by what he viewed as blatant disrespect to Rome. In a fit of madness, he ordered his army to attack the small island. Hundreds of heavily armed soldiers stormed the sacred isle and slaughtered the defenseless priests and priestesses living there. The battle, if a one-sided attack could be called such, became known as the Rape of Mona. (This whole paragraph is based on historical events.)
But as with the destruction of Atlantis, a few of the priests and priestesses survived. They split up – some went north and taught the tribes of the Picts, while the rest went south – in order to assure that if one community was attacked, others could continue to pass on the old ways. Those who went south separated into two groups, the men following the Archdruid to the Temple of the Stars, the women following the newly elected High Priestess who founded Avalon in the marshy area of Somerset called Glastonbury.
By 491 AD, nearly a century after the Romans left Britain to fend for herself, the inhabitants of Avalon were so many generations removed from Atlantis that few really cared about their ancestry. But it was a requirement that all students of the isle, whether they were to be consecrated priestesses or receive instruction only, learn the history. Still, few realized the Lady of Lake bore the responsibility of guarding precious artifacts from Atlantis. The others were the responsibility of the Archdruid and his community of men who lived in their own sacred space east of Avalon.
I can’t tell you who from Arthurian legend figures into life on Avalon or who is involved with the Archdruid, but suffice it to say many characters you wouldn’t normally think of are associated with this back story. And you’ll begin your discovery of Avalon and its inhabitants, mysteries and intrigue on the very first page. I can’t wait to make it available to you.
Explanation of image: I have such a strong mental image of Avalon that I could probably draw you a map, if I was so inclined. But I decided instead to try to show you what it looks like through Photoshop. In the foreground is the lake, with the boat that transfers you to and from the isle. Directly beyond are the small cluster of houses that make up the living and working quarters. Behind them are gardens where herbs and food are grown, and the famous apple orchards of Avalon. To the right, you see the Tor, base ringed by a small inland lake and tip ringed with standing stones (Stonehenge was the easiest thing for me to use; I don’t actually picture the stones exactly like that). Out of Tor runs the white spring. Chalice Hill is in near the top of the image, with the red spring flowing out of it. Where the two springs meet is a grove of yew trees. Beyond Chalice Hill are the Mendips, a mountain range that protects the small strip of Avalon not protected by the lake from the rest of the world. And yes, if you look closely, the mists are there as well.
Photo courtesy of Peter Pracownik
Happy New Year, everyone! This time of year always makes me think of Avalon. Maybe that’s because I was first introduced to it (via the Mists of Avalon) during January. Whatever the case, it took root in my imagination and has been growing there ever since.
Avalon has been part of Celtic mythology and Arthurian legend for almost as long as the legends themselves. Also known as the Isle of Apples or Isle of Glass, it’s most popularly seen as a sort of Otherworldly paradise like the Welsh Annwn or the Irish Tír na nÓg. It was said to produce abundant crops that didn’t need tending and to be a place of never ending summer (much like Camelot in the musical version). Tradition says it was inhabited by nine queens or priestesses known for their mystical and healing abilities. King Arthur is said to have been taken there (in some versions by Morgan) after receiving his mortal wound from Mordred at the battle of Camlann. Some say he never died, but sleeps there still.
But one thing no one can seem to agree on is where Avalon is located. Locations in France, Spain, Italy, the Mediterranean, the Orient, and even somewhere near the Garden of Eden have been put forth over the years. In more recent times, many writers (and a few scholars) have attempted to connect Avalon with the island of Atlantis, or at least the survivors of its great tidal wave and destruction. (I happen to like this theory, but its only just that.)
Today, popular opinion names Avalon’s real word location as Glastonbury in Somerset, England, thanks to a “grave” discovered in 1190 by a group of monks. According the legend, the grave contained the bones of two bodies, a very tall man, and a woman, whose blonde hair was in tact when the monks opened the casket. The grave marker is said to have borne the inscription, “Here lies renowned King Arthur in the island of Avalon” or “Here lies buried the famous King Arthur with Guinevere his second wife in the isle of Avalon.” This discovery has long since been discredited as a hoax arranged by the monks of an abbey on the site to bring in pilgrims (and thus, revenue), but the connection remains in popular consciousness.
This is the first in a three-part series exploring the holy isle. Next week we’ll take a closer look at Glastonbury and the remarkable geographic features that have fed the continuation of its association with Avalon.
What legends associated with Avalon have you heard? Do you believe it exists? Why or why not? This is by far my favorite part of Arthurian legend, so I’m anxious to get a conversation going.
Call it MithraYuleMas – the fact that three distinct holidays (holy days) were celebrated on or near December 25 in the times of King Arthur and Guinevere. It was a contentious age, in which the old pagan religions were waning and the new religion of Christianity was just gaining power, so what each person celebrated depended on their faith. (I’m not taking any sides here, just stating the tenants of the traditions.) Here are the top three most likely festivals:
The Great Mother and her divine son
Yule – Celebrated on the Winter Solstice (December 21-23 depending on the year), Yule marks the longest night of the year and the rebirth of the god who died at Samhain. This child of light (Lugh, Mabon or various other gods) is symbolized by the sun, which will continue to gain strength until the Summer Solstice. In some versions of Celtic mythology, the young god is kidnapped or stolen away in precarious circumstances, much like the Christian story of the flight into Egypt and the Arthurian tale of Arthur’s fostering by Sir Ector at Merlin’s command. Many sites associated with the Druids, such as Newgrange and Stonehenge, are aligned to the Winter Solstice sunrise or sunset.
The holy family
Christmas – Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Jesus, the son of the Hebrew (and now Christian) God. Many scholars now agree it is likely the historical Jesus was born in spring or summer, the time when shepherds (who were among the first to visit baby Jesus, according to the Bible) would have had their sheep in pasture and been keeping the night watch mentioned in the Bible. So why do we celebrate Christmas in December? The Catholic Church was very good assimilating aspects of the old faiths when it took over. That date conveniently encompassed the pagan celebrations of Yule and the birth of Mithras (see below), so it would have made the conversion of the faithful a little easier.
Mithras slaying the bull
Birth of Mithras – Mithras began as a Persian Zoroastrian god of oaths, but was assimilated by the Romans in a highly elaborate cult. Because of his popularity with soldiers, some researchers suggest he may have been the god of choice of a pagan, Romano-Celtic King Arthur. Like Jesus, Mithras was said to have been born on December 25 and was as a reconciler between the forces of good and evil who was buried in a tomb and rose after three days. Like the Celtic gods celebrated at Yule, he was a child of the sun. Sources differ over whether or not Mithras was ever human.
So which feast were Arthur and Guinevere most likely to celebrate? The truth is, we don’t know. I’ve made decisions for my books, but personally, I think the smartest course of action would have been to keep their personal beliefs to themselves and tolerate all three. That way, they would ensure the loyalty of the greatest number of their subjects.
We may not know much about the truth behind Arthurian legend, but one thing is pretty certain: if King Arthur existed, he was a warrior. And probably even Guinevere, too. Women were just as likely to be battle trained as men in Celtic society. As I mentioned in a previous post, in King Arthur’s world, you couldn’t get much higher than being a warrior (except maybe being a Druid) because they were the ruling class.
The Celts were fearsome warriors. Over a period of 800 years, they massacred four entire Roman legions and even sacked Rome in 390 BC. One of their most famous revolts was led by Queen Boudicca in Britain in AD 60-61.
Membership in the warrior class was usually hereditary, but status as solider often came as part of a complicated agreement similar to feudalism. Any freeman (anyone who was not an outlaw, exile or slave) could get a loan of grain, tools, livestock, horses or whatever else was needed) from another freeman in exchange for military service at an interest rate around 30%. But if a Celt wanted a lower interest rate (around 8%), he or she also had to give food and free labor to the overlord. Because being under service to someone else did not preclude you from having someone in your service, so the web of loyalties and debts often got very complicated. Out of this web emerged the concept of knighthood (and perhaps Arthur’s venerable Knights of the Round), though chivalry would come much later.
Anyone with at least five free clients (under the lower interest loan) and five base clients (the higher interest loan) was considered some level of noble. So the more people in your service (and hence, the bigger your army) the more powerful you were. But it was your military and political prowess that really determined your rank among the nobility.
So if you met a Celtic warrior in a dark alley (which I wouldn’t advise) what would he or she look like? Both men and women wore trousers, colorful cloaks and tunics, and gold or silver plated belts. Some sources say the Celts stiffened their hair with lime when they went into battle. (But no one seems to explain why, at least that I’ve found.) Many fighters would have been armed with chain mail, which the Celts invented. They fought with a long sword, which hung from their right side by a bronze chain, and carried spears or lances to hurl at oncoming fighters. Some also fought with a weapon called a madaris, which seems to be similar to a javelin. And if they were so minded, they could use a sling and bow for distance weapons, but these were not the most important in their arsenal. Defense came in the form of shields made of wood, leather or bronze, which covered the fighter from knee to shoulder. Warriors could be mounted on horseback (whether or not their saddles had stirrups is a matter of controversy), on foot or if in an earlier time than my books, even in a war chariot.
And battle? One-on-one combat was valued, even as whole armies watched, so the outcome of a battle could be decided without mass casualties, but how often this technique was employed is unclear. What we do know is that unlike their Roman counterparts, the Celts were not good at formal formations (except for simultaneously putting up their shields to form a beetle-like barrier against javelins and other missile weapons) and organized techniques of warfare. In many cases, tribal loyalty counted above all, even the orders of a commander, so the battlefield always had the potential to be chaotic.
All the members of a family went off to war together and often died together. Camp women (pregnant and non-warrior women), artists and children often followed the battles, providing needed services such as cooking, laundry, healing and yes, sex. If the army they were following was defeated and they survived, many fled into the wilderness or to the nearest tribe seeking refuge, but most ended up as slaves to the victorious army.
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*In case you’re interested, most of this information came from Who Were the Celts by Kevin Duffy and Women in Celtic Law and Culture by Jack George Thompson, both of which are mentioned on my research page.
The word “outlaw” conjures up images of wild and woolly men, with no allegiance and nothing to lose. In the Celtic world, that’s partly accurate. You couldn’t get much lower than being an outlaw (except maybe being a slave). But outlaws (men and women) had much more in common with the highest Celtic class, the warriors, than you might think.
Simply put, outlaws were exiles from their tribe. You could become an outlaw for many reasons: going against the judgement of Druid (whose word was always final), breaking a tribal law or even not being able to pay a fine. In the later case, you would then plunder a neighboring tribe to raise the funds you needed to be reinstated (logical, right?). Exiled nobles often raised an army and fought their way back into society. But others did not have such options available to them.
Outlaws lived in an area of wilderness between the tribes that was vast and empty of what we would consider organized civilization. But they usually had at least a tacit alliance with a local tribe, for both their protection and that of the tribe. In places where this agreement occurred, the outlaws could be called upon to fight with and defend the tribe, if needed.
But they could also be called upon to do the tribe’s dirty work. Since the land and goods of a monarch were inherited by kin, not necessarily the chosen successor, murder and revenge were common to try to gain power. Nobles often employed bands of outlaws as mercenaries to raid or kill their neighbors. Because they were “outside of the law,” outlaws could not be punished under the law by those they harmed. If the wronged party was to have revenge, they had to track down the mercenaries in the vast, lonely wilderness, a place which the outlaws knew better than their pursuers.
Because they lived in the wilderness, outlaws were also thought to have special powers over Otherworldly nature creatures, including the Sidhe (faeries) and elves. In Irish mythology, there was a special band of outlaws called the Fianna, an elite group of outlaw warriors, who had no clan and no specific allegiance, but who often passed between this world and the Otherworld.
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In case you’re interested, most of this information came from Who Were the Celts by Kevin Duffy and Women in Celtic Law and Culture by Jack George Thompson, both of which are mentioned on my research page.
Brigid is perhaps the most well-known Celtic goddess whose gift is the fire of inspiration
Last week’s guest post on inspiration got me thinking more about the source of all our artistic endeavors and how that relates to Arthur, Guinevere, and the rest of the Celts.
Did you know the word inspiration comes from the Latin inspiratus, meaning “to be breathed upon?” It’s little wonder then, that we as humans have always looked outside ourselves for inspiration. And no matter the time or place, inspiration almost always leads back to a higher power. The Greeks had their nine Muses. The Hebrews considered poetry and prophecy of divine origin, as did the Norse. And and from the first Pentecost, Christians have been inspired by the Holy Spirit.
But what about the Celts? The most commonly invoked goddess of inspiration was Brigid. Worshiped on the Celtic holy festival of Imbolc, Brigid is the patroness of poetry, inspiration, fire, metalworkers and childbirth. She’s most commonly associated with Ireland in modern thought (thanks in large part to St. Brigid, her Christian counterpart) but she was worshiped throughout most of the Celtic world, including the areas we know as England, France and Spain. Other Celtic goddesses associated with inspiration include Druantia, a Gaulic goddess who is sometimes called “Queen of Druids” and is associated with fir and oak trees; Cerridwen, the Celtic goddess of death and the Underworld who tends the cauldron of knowledge; Canola, the Irish goddess of music and dance; and Cebhfhionn, who guards the well of knowledge and intelligence.
Celtic mythology gives us the Salmon of Wisdom/Knowledge, who according to legend, started life as an ordinary salmon. Then he ate nine hazelnuts that fell into the Fountain of Wisdom from the nine hazelnut trees that surrounded it. After eating the hazelnuts, the salmon gained all the knowledge in the world. In turn, the first person to eat his flesh would in turn gain all of his knowledge. The legendary warrior Fionn mac Cumhaill was said to have gotten his wisdom this way, as was the poet Taliesin, who is sometimes associated with Merlin in Arthurian legend. (I personally always feel smarter after eating salmon, but that might be the Omega-3s.)
The Druids were said to gain their inspiration through dreams and various forms of divination. Several sources tell of the Druid practice of secluding themselves in a cave or other very dark place to facilitate inspiration. I’ll be honest and admit I’ve tried this one myself, but to a lesser degree. It’s very hard to get a modern room dark, with all of our gadgets and streetlights, but if you use enough black duct tape, you can get close. I’ve found that the darkness and lack of distraction does make it easier to collect my thoughts, but for overall useful plot ideas, I have better luck with meditation.
In Greek thought, inspiration was an otherworldly, ecstatic state (furor poeticus, the divine frenzy or poetic madness), in which a poet or artist would be transported beyond his own mind and given the gods’ or goddesses own thoughts to embody. The Celts had the similar concept of Awen, although that word comes from eighth century Wales, which is well beyond the timeframe of the Celts in my books. Call it what you will, I believe every artist has experienced it at one time or another, that feeling of not being in control of what they’re creating. For me, its like the words flow out of my fingertips as though I’m taking dictation. Or sometimes scenes just come to me, especially if I’m doing something with my body I don’t really have to think about, like cleaning my house or driving a familiar route.
I don’t think we’ll ever understand the true nature of inspiration, where it comes from or why it is. But that’s really the point. Inspiration is all about awe and wonder, and the drive to create something out of nothing. If we lose that, life loses its mystery and the creative act, its purpose. For we understand the world through that which we and others create.
Whatever your source, I pray your muse will bide with you and breathe upon you so that you may experience many moments of furor poeticus.
Samhain, or as we know it, Halloween, marks the beginning of the Celtic New Year. We have no records of exactly how this holiest of feasts was celebrated, but traditions passed on over thousands of years give us a good starting point. What follows is my dramatic imagining of what could have taken place at a Celtic Samhain ritual. Journey with me back in time, won’t you?
The last of the day’s dying light casts long shadows at your feet as you depart from your small cottage. Leaving the door slightly ajar, you look back one last time at the simple plate of bread and cheese on a table by the front window, sustenance for wandering ancestral spirits, and to the single burning taper meant to both welcome the good and ward off the malevolent. All is in place. You can make your journey in peace.
As you walk through the countryside to the forest, you pass the herders and shepherds, coaxing sheep down from their highland pastures to their winter pens and leading the weaker cattle to be slaughtered, their sacrifice a store against the cold, starving days of winter that linger just on the horizon. In the thick blanket of leaves on the side of the road, squirrels and children scrounge for the last of the nuts and withered berries, for this is the night of last harvest. Anything remaining on the vine after nightfall is taboo, left for the spirits, a gift for the puca, with its long, shining mane and luminescent yellow eyes, or the beguiling Sidhe who ride out from the hollow hills in search of humans to enchant. Your stomach tightens against the current of unease in the air. This is the time of magic, the time when the dead walk among the living, for the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest tonight.
It is dark by the time you reach the stone circle and the air is thick with the scent of wood smoke and sounds of merriment. Friends call greetings and beckon you to feast with them on the roasting meat of a sacrificed boar, freshly baked barley bread and dishes made from apples and gourds. You gladly accept a cup of cider and sit on the cold earth to sup.
Watching the crowd you see tribesmen of all ranks joined together to mark the end of one year and the beginning of the next. To the east, a group of giggling young girls take turns peeling apples and casting their seeds like lots to divine the identity of their future mates. In the center of the circle, a couple leans toward the bonfire, each grasping the handle of pan, seeing their future predicted in the dancing of the hazelnuts on its surface. All around you, a stream of dancers twirl, some from an overabundance of drink, while others keep the more sacred tradition of dancing to keep the evil spirits at bay.
You are about to join them when a hush falls over the crowd as an elderly woman enters the circle, her long gray hair trailing loose over the folds of a black cloak. You recognize her as the high priestess of the Druids and bow to show your respect as she passes by, shuffling footfalls echoed by the thumping of her walking staff.
When you rise, you see someone has placed a large cauldron over the fire. The woman takes her place behind it and lifts her arms in invocation. The air stills and the crowd holds its breath. When she looks up, her eyes hold an otherworldly fire and you realize the Goddess stands before you. Before you can draw breath, you hear her reedy voice resonate in your head, although her thin lips scarcely move.
“This night you pay homage to Me, keeper of wisdom, harbinger of death, She to whom all return in the end. In my cauldron you shall be reborn or taste the bitter dregs of death, dependant on your actions in this life. Come forth and drink in remembrance of those who have passed through the veil before you.”
Your Chieftain steps forward, carrying a bowl in which the blood of the slain boar was the collected. He and the Crone walk the circle moonwise and pour out the blood at the base of each stone in thanksgiving for the fertility of the past year and as a gift meant to ensure its continuance in the year to come.
Returning to the center, she dips the cup into the cauldron and presents it to the Chieftain. He drinks, passes it on to his family, who give it to the next and so it makes its way around the circle. When it comes to you, you hesitate, seeing for a moment in its gleaming surface the blood of the fallen boar, even as its acrid smell identifies the contents as mere red wine. You swallow, wincing as the sour liquid winds its way to your belly, and seat yourself on the ground.This is the time for saying farewell to those whom the tribe has lost since the last Samhain festival. You close your eyes and slowly their faces take shape, the father lost to winter’s chill, the sister who died in childbirth, neighbors and friends who were their own bloody sacrifice in battle. And then you think of her, the Goddess Cerridwen. You must make you peace with her, for life is fickle and you know not if you will live to see this festival again. After several moments of silent prayer, another face rises in the darkness, a man crowned with antlers. It is his voice you hear this time, the dying God.
“Mourn me not, for I shall always return. Born on the longest night as the child of light, I wait only for the return of the sun. Blessings be upon you and those you hold dear.”
As you watch, his antlers fall off and he is swept into the Goddess’ ancient embrace.
When you open your eyes, you see the priestess is now gone. The ritual is over. All that remains of the former revelry are a few people casting objects into the fire – bunches of reeds or scraps of cloth representing their prayers – and those still rapt in private contemplation.
Taking a torch lit from the bonfire, you join your friends for the journey home, for no one should wander alone this night. There is solace in numbers from both the wolves howling in the hills and the wandering spirits.
Later, as you rest your weary head, you reflect on the transition of this ritual, from the time of harvest into the season of silence and of sleep. Though the land will soon be swathed in ice and snow, deep within the frozen earth, life goes on unseen. And from these tiny seeds, swaddled in their loamy wombs, shall rise the buds of spring.
