Waking the Young God

It was a long winter. Despite the promise of snowdrops and celandine, rain fell almost continually. Fields were waterlogged . Ploughing oxen strained against their yokes but it was almost too much for a pair to drag the single-ploughshare through drenched clods of earth. Boys, whose job it was to lead the teams, came home crying with wet and cold and aching limbs. The men were little better. Their pain showed in their eyes, pausing at the hearth only to shuck their mud-encrusted trews, shovelling food into mouths too tired to chew or swallow, falling asleep where they sat.

Food was scarce. Soon the last of the grain would be gone and none dared breach the sacks destined for seed. Salt fish and meat clung to the bottom of the barrels stiff with brine. Though women foraged for fresh greens, there was little to find and small children began to wail with empty bellies.

“We must wake the God,” the old women grumbled. “He has slept too long this winter. We must go to him with drums and shakers and loud cries, forcing him to rise and strengthen the sun, so the fields will dry out and we can plant grain for the summer.”

It was agreed. On the day most auspicious for waking the God, when hours of darkness equalled the hours of light, the whole village met on the edge of the wood and began to dance. Their feet pounded on the bare earth. Men brought huge drums made from hollowed logs and covered in skins. They beat them with sticks, their deep booms resonating against the trees. Children shook rattles and shouted – glad to be free of winter houses where everyone told them to be quiet and still. They ran around chasing playmates. Older boys and girls ventured into the edges of the forest, whooping and shrieking, calling out to the God to join them in their games.

When they could leap and shout no more, the villagers gathered their drums and children, making ready to trudge back to the village and once more tend their flocks and cattle.

Gilda was troubled. It did not seem right to wake the Young God without waiting to see how he fared. She knew what young folk were like, with three lively children of her own including two year old, Tomaz, who should really be weaned, but there was little else to give him other than a thin gruel.

“You take him for me,” she said to her mother, lifting the child onto Ella’s back. “I’m going into the wood to forage. There may be some patches of greens I’ve missed. I’ll be home before dark.”

The old women regarded her daughter through narrowed eyes. Gilda’s words were simple enough and goodness knew they needed whatever she could find, but it was only half the story. It was not like Gilda to put anything or anyone else before her man and her children, but now was not the time to ask questions. Ella called the other two children to her and they began to pick their way carefully along the muddy track back to the village.

Gilda stood watching them until the path curled away down the hill out of sight. The sky was clear now. More rain had fallen during the night, but the pale blue canopy held only white clouds high above, moving fast in the freshening wind. Far away on the horizon, Gilda could see the sparkle of sunshine on a quiet sea. If no more storms came, the men could go fishing and everyone could eat.

Gilda sighed. It was not in her nature to deceive her mother. Petros, the children’s father was long gone, busy moving sows into their farrowing pens before they dropped their litters amongst the other pigs where newborn piglets could be killed before anyone could save them.

She turned towards the wood, taking the higher path deep into the heart of the forest where deer lived and wolves roamed. On the other side of the hills there were said to be huge caves where bears slept during the winter. Gilda’s grandmother used to tell stories of the day when a huge black bear with two cubs were seen fishing on the sea shore when her grandfather was a boy, but no-one had seen them since that time, so it may be hunters killed all there were or maybe they moved to another cave on another hillside, frightened by the noise of the fishermen and their dogs.

Gilda was not a good hunter. Though she could set traps for hare and wove fine nets for fishing, her eyes and arms did not move well enough together to allow her success in the hunt with bow and arrow or spear or even sling shot. She practiced with her peers as a child, but everyone else could hit the target when she still missed. In the end, her father said it was a waste of good arrows to make them for her and showed her how to weave gathering baskets from grasses and young hazel or willow shoots. When others went hunting, she stayed behind to mind children or took her baskets with the elders when they went gathering.

Gilda walked steadily upwards. Although huge trees grew all around her, it was still light within the forest. No green canopy grew to shut out the sun. Everywhere she looked branches were bare. Even when she pressed her head against their thick bark to listen for sap rising, she could hear nothing.

Until she came towards a less densely wooded glade. Here were carpets of bluebells and wild garlic. Primroses painted a yellow path of colour around the edges of the clearing, drawing her forward towards a low, sheltered rock covered in green moss. As she drew near, the moss shimmered in the sunshine and seemed to move. Long limbs stretched and a lithe figure sat up from the soft bed where he had been lying.

He sat, blinking in the sunlight as she approached. His dark brown hair was a wreath of curls around his head, but Gilda could see antler buds pushing their way above his crown. His skin was pale, as one who has been too long away from the sun and his legs were covered in fine brown hair, smooth as silk

He yawned and stretched again. “You woke me,” he said, fixing Gilda with deep brown eyes, like a fawn’s eyes, but older than the earth itself.

Gilda felt her insides churn. She was no shaman, used to travelling to the spirit world to talk with Gods and Spirits. Yet she knew he would need someone with him when he woke, to remind him of his duties, to guide him into a new world to do what must be done.

“We need you,” she said. “The winter has been long and wet. If you do not wake and grow strong, we cannot till the soil and plant our grain. There will be no grass for our cattle and sheep, no blossom on our trees, no plants to grow and feed my children and my man.

“If you do not mature, who will catch the maiden and sow your seed. The Mother will be barren, we shall starve and wither away.”

He blinked again. “What is that to me?”

“Without your strength, we cannot tend the earth the Mother provides for us. Without us, you are forgotten and the earth is bare, blowing away as dust upon the wind. No-one will manage your forests and the trees will die. The deer will over graze the young trees and the stags will kill each other in their fight to gather enough hinds around them in the rut.”

He shook his head, then slipped off the rock and stood on the ground, his feet pawing at the earth like a young stag. His head went back and his call echoed around the glade. It was not the deep roar of the mature stag, but rather the young male who stands on the cusp between childhood and maturity.

Gilda shivered. It seemed a lifetime ago since she stood on the edge of the forest at Beltane after dancing around the maypole with all the other young men and women. When the ribbons were all intertwined they climbed the path to the woods, laughing and giggling, wondering who would meet with the God amongst the trees. One by one the others fell behind, hiding in pairs behind bushes and brambles to play adult games with adolescent bodies.

Gilda found herself alone on the path until she heard the God calling. She did not remember going to him, nor what befell her that night. Petros found her wandering amongst the trees in the half-light of dawn, her dress torn and muddy. He took her back to the fire coaxing and soothing her until they leapt the flames together and the elders agreed their union.

They never spoke of that night again. The children she bore him were hale and hearty. If her eldest girl sometimes talked to unseen friends, they put it down to her age and knew she would grow out of it once her childhood passed.

Hearing the young God call brought back so many memories, but Gilda was no longer that maid, she was a woman, a mother. He needed someone to care for him and guide him.

He looked towards her. “I’m hungry.”

Gilda thought quickly. “The only food I have is my milk. It is yours if you wish it.”

He smiled at her, his brown eyes twinkling. Taking her hand, he led her around the stone where grass and moss together made a soft seat. He sat her down, lounging beside her as she loosened the lacings at her breast. Even though her youngest child was near weaning, his call had made her milk let down, dark wet patches, staining her blouse.

His fingers stroked her, drawing the material away from her breast. He traced the dark blue veins of milk down to her nipples, circling the aureoles, then catching the pale, blue/grey drops of milk on his fingertips. He raised it to his mouth, his long, pink tongue catching the drops and taking them inside his mouth.

He smiled again, nodding, as if to signify the taste pleased him. Then he draped himself across her, resting his head in the crux of her arm as he drew her nipple into his mouth and drank.

She felt the long, slow pulses of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and the streams of milk leaving her. She felt him swallow, each draught of milk filling his need and feeding his body. When that breast was dry, he turned himself, latching on to her with skilful ease. She stroked his head, rubbing the tiny antlers as they twisted through his hair, crooning the same lullabies she sang to her own children. She could not wonder how her milk should be so plentiful, only that he wished to feed and she could serve him.

When he was full, he lay in her arms and slept; the sun warming them both on the soft grass.

When he woke, he looked up at her, his dark eyes warm and loving.

“I will not forget,” he said. “Those who come to me without fear, without conditions, offering themselves alone, those I allow to serve me. This is your second time. Come to me again at Beltaine and I will quicken you. Your voice will mark my harvest and you will help the Mother bring me forth again at Yule.

“Go now. Follow the left hand path to the edge of the forest. Beside the rowan tree you will see a rock shaped like an eagle’s beak, under it flows a spring. Around the pool fed by the spring you will find ample greens for your children. Gather only what you need each day and it will keep both you and them until the grass grows again and other plants can feed you.” He kissed her cheek. When she moved to thank him, he was gone.

Gilda got to her feet and set off down the hillside, following the left hand track through the trees. When she reached the edge of the forest, she saw a single rowan tree standing beside a stone. As she drew closer, she could see the stone did indeed resemble an eagle’s beak, with clear water running from it. She was tired after her long walk, so she stopped and gathered the water into her hands and drank. It tasted cool and sweet.

The spring ran down into a tiny stream, which then flowed into a small pond. Just as the Young God said, around the edges of the pond grew thick, lush watercress, bright green and tasting hot in the late afternoon sunshine. Gilda filled her carrybasket, offering her thanks to Young God and the spirits of place who allowed her such bounty with which to feed her family.

“The Gods must favour you,” Petros said later, his mouth full of watercress. Gilda said nothing. Her milk was gone now. Tomaz was weaned, but he would not starve. Her thoughts turned towards Beltane and she smiled.

A Story for Ostara

It had been a long, hard winter. Although the snow had come and gone, frosts and freezing rain had taken their toll on the people and the land. Constant rains had turned the fields to mud baths and those cattle and sheep that were not in barns found little to forage.

Snowdrops had come and violets too in sheltered woodland; sticky buds hung on the trees and catkins had been swinging amongst the branches of hazel trees for weeks, but still there was no letup from the constant rain. Signs from the west showed there should be more snow.

"How can there be snow?" wondered the boy to his mother as he watched her pound the last of the grain for their evening meal.

"How should I know?" his mother sighed. "Such knowledge is not given to me. Go away and play, Joschin, I am very tired."

So the boy went and sat amongst the empty sacks, thinking of a time when snow only fell at wintertime. When Ostara came, the promise of Imbolc was fulfilled and the weather grew warm again

"It's not fair!" he grumbled to himself. "Things have never been right since Emmy went to be with the ancestors. If she were here, Spring would come again, Mother would not be so tired and Father might smile once in awhile"

Suddenly he stood up and said to himself, "I'm going to find her! She should know she is needed here with us, not amongst the darkness with the ancestors. She is young and beautiful and her laughter is like birdsong in the dawn. I want her back with us...now!"

The boy found his cloak and his walking stick and set off into the rain to find his sister. After a while, the rain stopped, but the wind blew against him, freezing his cheeks.

He thought he heard tiny voices crying in the wind. Turning around, he cried aloud, "Stop buffeting me, wind! I am going to find my sister. She is sleeping with the ancestors in the darkness; do you know where I might find her?"

The voices in the wind did not answer him, but a huge grey owl took off from the branches of a nearby tree. It flew across the path in front of the boy and then up towards the nearest hill.

He took it as a sign that he should follow the owl and started to climb towards the summit. When he reached the top, he stopped for a moment to get his breath. He shielded his eyes with his hand, trying to see an entrance to the world of the ancestors.

Just at that moment, the clouds parted and the sun shone through leading a beam of light into the valley below.

"Follow the river," he heard a quiet voice say. The boy could not see a river, but he knew that little streams were often found on the valley floor, so he set off once more and strode down the other side of the hill until he came to a glade of trees.

"Is this the way to the world of the ancestors?" he asked politely as he entered the glade. The bare branches of the trees rustled in the wind and tall green ferns shook their fronds at him.

"Follow the river." He heard the voice again and this time he caught the sound of water tinkling along a stream bed. He walked towards the sound and there, sure enough, was a stream merrily tripping over large stones as it made its way down the valley.

The boy followed the stream for many hours, but it never reached the entrance to the world of the ancestors.

"What am I going to do?" the boy asked.

He knew that the ancestors lived underground in huge caverns; that was where they had taken Emmy the previous autumn, when the leaves had turned golden and brown and had fallen from the trees. The Shaman had told him that the Lord of the Underworld would cherish her and she would return to them again one springtime when the flowers bloomed.

If he could not find the entrance to the underground caverns, how could Emmy return? He began to despair he would not find her and Spring would never come again.

Just then he heard a great splash! When he looked towards the sound he saw an enormous salmon leaping out of the water. He ran forward and threw himself down on the rocks beside the stream to see where the salmon had gone, but all he saw was a shimmering whirlpool with clear water going round and round in tight circles.

"Follow the river!" Once again the voice came in his head.

"Follow the river where?" the boy wondered, but at the back of his mind the thought came to him that the world of the ancestors was underground and the whirlpool was also going down into a secret place. Maybe if he dived into the whirlpool, it would take him to the entrance he sought.

Without another thought, he threw off his cloak and his shoes and dived headfirst into the swirling water. He found himself floating down a huge shaft of blue grey stone. The air was warm and silky smooth and somehow he was gently lowered into the entrance of an enormous cave. The place was lit by huge, flickering torches and light danced on the cave walls, revealing giant paintings of many different animals.

The boy walked towards the middle of the cave, awestruck as he watched the animals run and jump in the torchlight around him. First he saw a chestnut horse run across the plains, kicking its legs in the long grasses. Then a lion rose from its hiding place and ran after the horse, but it could not catch the flying hooves. As the boy watched, the lion turned into a running sheep and then into a goat with curled horns that were almost as big as its body.

The goat began to stand on its hind legs and grew larger and larger until it filled the whole cave. Its coat hung down in long woolen ringlets and between the horns there was a face - forbidding yet kind, dark and yet surrounded by the light from the golden wool.

The boy fell to the ground in front of the huge beast.

"Please, my Lord, "he begged, "I have come to fetch Emmy, my sister. She has spent long enough amongst the darkness of the ancestors. We need her laughter and her smiles to coax back the Spring or Winter will never leave us!"

The huge figure was silent and the boy wondered if he had said too much, but when he looked up again into the creature's face, the cave was empty. The boy rose slowly to his feet wondering what he should do now. As he turned around, he caught sight of another glow of light in a further hidden part of the cave.

As he ventured towards it, he heard someone talking.

"You'll like it in the light, my little friend," a soft voice said. When he peeped around the rock, there was his sister, sitting on a stone, feeding lettuce to a tortoise.

"Emmy!" he cried, rushing towards her and taking her in his arms.

"Hello Joschin," she smiled, "I've been waiting for you to come and find me. Has Spring returned to the world yet?"

"No Emmy, it's waiting for you," he told her. "Will you come back with me and teach us to sing again?"

His sister smiled at him and stood up, taking his hand.

"We must take my friend with us," she said, pointing towards the tortoise, "he's been asleep too and now he's awake and wants to walk in the sunshine."

Joschin picked up the tortoise and held him under his arm, but as he turned, he found their way barred by the Lord of the Underworld.

"Would you take away that which is mine?" Cernunnos demanded.

"But, Sir," the boy said. "They belong to us both. Once light equals darkness, you cannot keep them here underground when they need to be with us amongst the trees and flowers. What would we do if the light did not grow brighter and crops did not grow and trees did not bear fruit?"

The Lord of Beasts growled softly in his throat. "If light truly equals darkness, then I cannot keep her here, but know you that when the tortoise sleeps again, she must return to me"

The boy looked at his sister and a great sadness grew in his throat, but he swallowed hard and nodded. "It shall be so, my Lord" he said, bowing his head. "When the tortoise sleeps, I will bring her back myself."

The creature nodded and opened his arms towards the girl and she ran to him, giving him one last embrace before she returned to her brother and once more tucked her hand into his.

The boy wondered how they would find their way back to the land of men, but as he blinked, he found himself once more in the woodland glade. Emmy ran forward laughing, reaching down to pick the primroses growing on the edge of the field. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining above them while an enormous rainbow arched from the sky to the land.

As they walked back up the hill they could see lambs in the fields with their mothers and birds sang in the trees as they passed. When they reached the village, all the people came out to greet them. Everyone wanted to touch the girl who had returned to them from the world of the ancestors and Joschin was taken up and rode high on the shoulders of the tallest men, for he had found her.

After the feast that night, when Emmy was asleep in her little bed, Joschin went to his mother and said quietly, "We cannot have her back for ever, Mother,"

"I know, Joscin, I know." his mother said, stroking his hair, "but you did well to bring her back when you did. Even though she must return to the Lord of the Underworld, she is not lost to us, only sleeping until Spring sees her back with us once more."

From the army : flowers

To read about my latest training experience with the armed forces, go to Tales of a Kitchen Herbwife

Stone Circle Hunting in Winter

When an opportunity arose to greet the sunrise at Stonehenge, I jumped at it. Never an early riser, the winter months appeared to give ample time to welcome the light at a reasonable hour. As the date grew closer, a welcoming bed and breakfast was booked in Salisbury and we began to think of where else we wanted to visit either side of our morning access to Stonehenge. Avebury and Glastonbury came to mind, with the possibility of local Iron Age hillforts if weather and time allowed.

We sought the less travelled route of the Fosse Way, following it down through Cirencester and then heading to Swindon and finally Avebury, where we stopped for a late lunch.

The village of Avebury lies within a circular earthwork, 400 m wide, with a deep external ditch whose circumference is over 1200 metres. Inside is a 400-metre diameter circle of immense standing stones, and inside that there are two more stone circles each 100 metres in diameter. The village clusters inside the circle. To reach the impressive sandstone sarcens you have to go into four different fields and cross the busy road – not an easy task in the Wiltshire rush hour!

Wandering inside the circle, our thoughts turned to the original function of Avebury. The stones were quarried from the Avebury hills some 2-3 km eastwards and were first brought to the site from about 2800BCE. It is thought all the stone circles, earthworks and stone avenues were constructed during the following five thousand years.

We reasoned such a project would not have been achieved merely for religious reasons but for the entirety of people’s lives. The circles may well have housed temples and the avenues led to burial chambers and places of inner devotion at the sanctuary. The stone’s alignments gave people access to calendars and weather reporting and other knowledge necessary for successful agricultural pursuits which in turn provided means of sustenance for the people. The stones also offered meeting places and opportunities for trade and exchange not only of goods and services but knowledge and training, as well as the sharing of joy and sorrow throughout the wheel of both the year and of life itself.

Light was fading fast, so we left Avebury and drove out to West Kennet Long Barrow. The five-chambered long barrow is one of my favourite places, but I have always visited it in summer when the corn is high and the barrow seemingly enclosed within fields. It was a revelation to visit in winter, reaching the summit to look out from the barrow over the surrounding countryside.

Inside the barrow, five chambers lead off from a central gallery, all built from huge sarsen stones. It is thought the barrow was first used as a burial chamber around 3700-3600 BCE and was closed about 1200 years later. At the time of sealing the barrow, a row of huge sarsens was placed immediately in front of the entrance in the manner of blocking stones.

The majority of the barrow was damaged by grave robbers and local farmers hunting for stone, so it is difficult to imagine how the entire barrow would have looked during the time it was in constant use. Sketches in the Avebury museum suggest that skeletal bones from the barrow would have been paraded during major ceremonies. The theory is that such bones would have been carried around the boundaries of a tribe’s land to show ownership and also to connect the tribal chieftain with the ancestors and provide him with a valid base for leadership.

Next morning began before 7am with the realisation the sun had risen without us and was shining with a rose tinted light on the walled garden whilst we ate breakfast. We reached Stonehenge just after 8 am, along with eighteen other foreign nationals who had come to visit the most publicised stone circle in Britain.

There is no doubt of the impressive and imposing nature of Stonehenge. Viewed from the hilltop overlooking the site, you could imagine the awe and fear struck into the hearts and minds of tribespeople coming towards the open plain. The inspiration and fortitude of the original architects and builders was quite incredible – to achieve such a construction by bringing stones from Wales to mount upon Salisbury plain is truly amazing.

All I felt, was cold. Not just the freezing, biting wind of winter blowing through our clothes and chilling our bodies, but the dearth of laughter and joy throughout the circle. This was not a place of commerce and sharing, but of power and fear. I sensed death within the circle, not something I have felt in any other stone circle I have visited.

There was something about the straight, worked stones which felt very different from the roughly hewed cones and lozenges of other circles. There was nothing personal here, nothing to link the individual with the energy of the stones, it was a place to fall and cover your face as the sun touched the tip of a stone, bathing it in orange light.

We did not seek to remain longer than our allotted hour. We were chilled through and through. It took quite a while to stop shivering and draw in the heat from the car as we turned towards Glastonbury, away from the plain.

At Longleat, we met cars covered in snow. Nearby Cley Hill was also sugar coated in the morning sunlight, accentuating the steps of the iron age enclosure with hut circle settlement and hillfort with mediaeval strip lynchets around the side. At the top there is another round barrow, but it was far too cold to consider climbing up to see it!

The trip to Glastonbury took us over an hour, but the sight of the Tor as we came into the town along the river was truly impressive. We also passed lots of mistletoe balls hanging from bare branches, something I had not seen since visiting Oregon. It was good to know it was growing somewhere in England, as I have never been able to successfully promote growth from berries in my trees, either apple or oak.

A dark cloud was just starting to cover the sun when we girded our loins, changed our shoes and set off to walk up to the top of the Tor. The steepness of the slope and the biting wind made us stop at frequent intervals to admire the view. Even the inside of the tower on top of the Tor afforded no refuge from what now had become snow flurries, but we eventually found shelter against the south west face. Here we watched the rooks trying to take off against the wind and failing. Eventually, we walked down to the Chalice Well, drawing comfort from the peaceful gardens, before returning to the car on quivering legs, exhilarated by our short pilgrimage.

We were sad to leave the ancient city on Saturday morning, but broke our journey at the Rollright stones not far from Long Compton in Oxfordshire. These are my “local” stone circle, but I had never visited the Whispering Knights, a collapsed Neolithic Dolmen (single chambered burial mound) before. The circle is built from local Cotswold stone and is showing the pockmarked signs of age as a consequence. The stones (The King’s men) are much smaller than the other circles we had seen, but no less impressive in their own way.

The Rollrights is the circle furthest south on the trade route from Axe Mountain in Cumbria. Swinside and Castlerigg stone circles are two others built in the same manner. Neolithic stone axes have been found in several circles, suggesting they were places to store and trade goods in very early times.

The stones have many local legends. It was said someone wishing to become King of all England was on his way to London when he chanced to meet the local witch, Mother Shipton. Of course his plans came to nothing, with the man being turned into the King Stone, his men into the stone circle and his Knights into the Dolmen. It is also said her spell is released at midnight, when the men come to life again and dance in a ring and the Knights go down to a spring at Little Rollright Spinney to drink.

This latter part of the legend echoes the one of the Whittlestone in Lower Swell, another sarson guarding a roundbarrow, which goes down to the Lady Well to drink when Stow on the Wold clock strikes twelve. It is interesting two such similar stories should be attached to stones not ten miles from each other!

Too soon, our brief excursion into a different world was over. We returned to our respective responsibilities refreshed by our experiences hunting stone circles in winter.

Imbolc story from "The Wheel of the Year"

Kiera was hunting for firewood on the edge of the forest when she came across the first snowdrop. The white bell nodded in the breeze like a tiny snowflake left behind from the latest thaw. Kiera touched it gently with her finger, marvelling at the pale green line edging the petal as if someone had come in the night and painted it whilst no-one was looking.

"I found snowdrops by the thorn trees this afternoon, Gramma," she said as she carried the carefully chopped logs and placed them in the box by the fire.

The older woman smiled, the light from the oil lamp casting soft shadows on her face and making her young again. "I've always loved snowdrops. They bring promise of spring and show that winter cannot last all year long."

"I saw the men building the Imbolc roundhouse when I was searching for wood earlier. Will I be allowed to join the celebrations this year?" Kiera's eyes were wistful. Ever since she was a little girl she had asked if she could be allowed to take part in the ritual.

It was her favourite part of the year, when young lambs were born and creamy milk from the ewes given to the children to make them strong. Usually she sat with the other children on piles of straw playing with the lambs and joining in the singing and dancing as gifts were offered to the Goddess - new ploughshares forged by the blacksmith, strange smelling potions from the healers and songs and poetry from the bards. All these to honour the fire Goddess, Brigid, who inspired all these different crafts.

"What makes you think this year should be different for you, Kiera?" her Grandmother asked as she did every year when Kiera made her request. The girl looked into the fire and thought for several long moments.

"I'm different this year, Gramma." and her eyes as she searched her Grandmother's face were wide and open in the firelight. "This will be the nearest rite since I saw first blood and I should dearly love to be allowed to honour the Maiden. She is the one who is breathing life into all things in preparation for Spring.

"I've not really noticed it before, but this year it is as if I can sense the days becoming longer and when I'm out in the woods there's a humming under my feet as if the roots of all the trees are waking. I've watched the leaf buds change from brown to green and thicken on the twigs and branches and all the birds are singing to mark their territory and find their mate." Her voice dropped almost to a whisper.

"Sometimes, Gramma, if I go to the woods in the fog, it seems as if the whole world is waiting for the God to appear, as if the fog is his silent caress to the earth. Everything is so quiet, so breathless....."

Her Grandmother nodded. "And what have you created that might be a gift for the Goddess?"

"I've made Her a song, Grandmother! May I sing it to you?" and when she saw the other's assent she began to sing in a clear, sweet voice,

"A lamb for the Goddess I bring to you
Here's snowdrops for welcome and crocuses too
The green of the ivy for life ever new
These gifts do I bring to you

Some milk for the Goddess I bring to you
Here's cheese from the shepherd and wool from the ewe
The brown of the soil where young shoots will grow
These gifts do we bring to you

Some wine for the Goddess we bring to you
Here's fish from the river and salt crystals too
The blue of the goblet reflecting the sky
These gifts do we bring to you

Our love for the Goddess we bring to you
Here's garlands of evergreen woven anew
Our hearts ever joyful to welcome the Spring
These gifts do we bring to you."

"That's a lovely song, Kiera!" Her Grandfather stooped as he entered the room, his head almost touching the thatch as he stood up. "Shall you be singing it when the full moon rises in two days time?"

Kiera looked at her Grandmother. "I think so, Ranulph. She's shown that she can listen as well as speak and she uses her eyes to watch for the hidden secrets as well as the obvious mysteries. She's aware now of the waxing powers of the sun over winter's darkness. I think it's time for her to wear the yellow cloak and sweep the roundhouse clean before we begin."

"Oh Gramma, thank you! thank you!" Kiera flung her arms around the older woman's neck and hugged her tightly.

"You've got a lot to do in these two days, Kiera." Her Grandmother told her. "Imbolc is a time for purification, for cleansing both mind and body of winter's sloth and despair, ready for doing what must be done in the coming year. You must use this time to plan your spirit's journey through this passage of the wheel, to wonder at the marvels of the earth and to explore the gifts that the Goddess and the God have made manifest to you."

She went to the linen chest and took out the yellow woollen robe and placed it in Kiera's arms. "Go home and tell you parents everything I've said now, dear."

"Yes, Gramma and thank you again!" Kiera kissed her warmly on her cheek and rushed out to find her family and tell them the wonderful news.

"You've made a very happy lass, Guytha!" her husband said, enfolding her in his long arms and drawing her to him. "I can remember when you wore the yellow cloak for the first time and sang for the Goddess. I knew then you were the girl I wanted by my side so we could serve the God and Goddess together through the Wheel of the Year."

Guytha rubbed his cheek with the back of her hand. "It's not been easy, Ranulph, all these years, seeing to both the physical and spiritual needs of our people."

"That's why Imbolc is a special time for us as well, love, for it's a time to celebrate all soul midwives, those like you who assist our spiritual paths towards the light. I, for one would have been in darkness far longer if you hadn't been around to light my fire."

"Ranulph!" Guytha buffeted his arm in mock reproof. "Trust you to say something like that when I thought you were being so solemn!"

"But it's true, Guytha!" and he swept her up into his arms as if she were still his young bride and not his loving wife of forty years. "Now is the time to celebrate and what better way to honour the God and Goddess than by lighting the fire of our love so that it can burn long and merrily until spring returns again!"

Sharing a tale

The dreadful weather we've been experiencing for the past few weeks led to the cancellation of Solihull Writer's Workshop this week, so, having written a short story to the given theme, I thought I would share it here.

I was inspired by a photo taken after Christmas by a Scottish herbalist friend of mine, Claire Mullen. It was a stunning view of the blue moon touching a tall fir tree.It was one of those scenes which just begged to be included in a story.

The theme we had to write about was someone who didn't fit in. Once again I have drawn on my own experience - it's very difficult to make friends in a small school where you're the teacher's daughter, you live five miles away from the village and your mother doesn't really think that any of the village children are suitable friends for her child.

The glue pasting incident is true as well. It happened in NZ and the 12 year old boy who decided I was far too clean was the local vicar's son in Mt Manganui. I don't remember anyone coming to my rescue, but everyone was shocked! Needless to say, I survived, but my lasting friendships were made in secondary school when I was far enough away from home to form my own relationships.

Finding a friend

Jenny looked up at the stars. She didn’t know why, but it seemed important to stare into the darkness on the first night in her new home. She couldn’t remember the sky around the old cottage where they lived before. It was in the middle of the village. There were always lights from the houses or farm buildings.

Here, there was nothing for miles and miles. The only shape she had seen as twilight disappeared was a huge fir tree on the horizon. It stood alone against a vast, unbroken darkness filled with tiny, sparkling, pinpricks of light.

“The tree doesn’t have any friends,” Jenny thought to herself. “Just like me.”

Her mother came out into the porch. “Jenny, whatever are you doing?”

“Looking at the stars.”

“Come inside you silly child, you’re letting heat out of the house and you’re not even wearing your coat!” Grabbing Jenny’s arm, her mother drew her indoors. It was seven o’clock on a cold November evening and time for bed, no matter what her daughter might think.

The next day Jenny started at her new school. It was a long way from her home and she had to walk down the hill to some houses in the valley where two other girls caught the school bus. Jenny’s mother knew their mother. They went potato picking together in the autumn. Jenny sat on her own in the seat in front of the two sisters.

When the bus stopped outside a high stone wall in the middle of the village, the girls took Jenny through a yellow wooden door into the playground. Almost as soon as they arrived, a small, middle aged woman with dark hair tied up in a bun came outside ringing a bell. The children jostled each other as they went into the small cloakroom to hang up their coats and hats.

“Here’s your peg, Jenny,” said the headmistress, Mrs Brown. “I’ve written your name on a card by the side. When you’ve taken off your coat, I will show you where you are sitting.”

Jenny went with Mrs Brown into the large room. One half was filled with desks in front of a large stove surrounded by a fireguard. The other half was empty with a piano in one corner and trestle tables and benches stacked up along the walls.

“Over there is where we do gym and eat our lunch,” Mrs Brown explained. “This is your desk. Your exercise and text books are all inside. You will need to put your name on them and make sure they don’t get lost.”

Jenny looked at the desk. It was right at the front of the class where everyone could see her. Everyone else’s desk was in a pair, so children could sit by their friends, but Jenny’s was alone. She took a deep breath and sat down in her chair. A door beside Mrs Brown’s desk opened and all the infant children came in for morning assembly. The school day had begun.

Jenny liked school. She knew most of her times tables and didn’t mind standing in front of the fireguard in turn to recite while Mrs Brown took the register each morning. She loved reading and enjoyed writing stories and copying the writing off the board when they did history and geography on Mondays and Tuesday.

Her favourite day was Wednesday when the girls did sewing and the boys made things from bits of wood on the dining tables. The little girls started with square mats embroidered with pulled thread work then progressed to felt purses and stuffed toys.

Jenny was working on a dressing table set for her mother. It was made from blue material and she had chosen white and red threads for the decoration. In the centre she carefully made a spider’s web, weaving the silks under and over the threads Mrs Brown had sewn for her.

Jenny loved the spider’s web because it reminded her of the full moon. She loved the moon and always looked for it when she woke up in the morning to see it was still in the sky.

One week, Mrs Brown was ill and Mr Heath taught them. When Wednesday came, he told the girls they would be making cardboard animals on the dining tables with the boys. They had to cut out the shapes, colour them in and then glue the pieces together.

Jenny was sitting opposite Andrew Pulham, the vicar’s son. Andrew was a year older than Jenny. Soon he would be sitting the eleven plus so he could go to the big school in Northleach. Jenny was carefully sticking her elephant’s legs on when he suddenly leaned across and painted the backs of both her hands with glue. Jenny looked up at him in horror.

“You’re far too clean and tidy,” he said, daring her to say anything to him. Helen Morris, who was the same age as Jenny, gave her some paper towel to wipe off the glue.

“You horrible boy,” she glared at Andrew. “How would you feel if someone did that to you?” She took a brush full of glue and coated Andrew’s hand.

Jenny held her breath, wondering what Andrew would do next, but he said nothing. When they finished the lesson and it was afternoon playtime Helen went with her into the cloakroom so she could wash her hands.

“Just because he’s the vicar’s son, he thinks he can get away with everything!” Helen told her. “I wasn’t going to let him play his horrid tricks on you!”

Jenny smiled and thanked her. “I do hope Mrs Brown gets back soon so we won’t have to sit with the boys again next Wednesday!”

That night Jenny helped her father to feed the cattle. It was warm and cosy in the barn. The cows and last year’s calves lived together in a large pen all through the winter. Jenny climbed up on the hay stack and threw down an opened bale into the hay racks for them to eat.

When they were finished, Jenny walked down to the house. Half way there she looked up at the sky and saw the moon rising above the horizon. The branch of the tall fir tree seemed to touch the moon like a giant finger.

“Oh,” she sighed, “the fir tree has the moon to play with. It won’t be lonely any more.”

Jenny ran into the house looking forward to her next day at school when Helen had promised they would play together. It was good to know she had a friend.