Bedtime Story: Reflections Of The Past: Air: Chapter 11

Reflections of the Past A Story of the Guardians of the Well By Vanda Inman These words are written in honour of the guardians of the past,

And those who journey in the name of love,

Light and all that is good.

The answers to all the questions we might ever ask can be found in the ground beneath our feet.

Part 2 Air Celtic Christian Chaos The Story of St Clodorous The Holy Spring and the Village Church Hawthorn The hawthorn has long been used to increase fertility.

Because of this power,

It is incorporated into weddings,

Especially those performed in the spring.

The leaves,

Curiously enough,

Are also used to enforce or maintain chastity or celibacy.

The hawthorn is also known as the Queen of the May,

And was banned from the early Christian church due to its association with witchcraft.

The Story of St Clodorous Once upon a time,

A man walked through a remote and hidden valley.

He had travelled far and wide,

Away from his homeland,

On a quest of his own to find a very special place.

He arrived at the valley in the springtime of the year.

Above him,

White rocks towered,

One a pinnacle akin to a miniature mountain,

Swathed in green and crowned with gold.

Below,

A swaying river rushed along the basin of the valley,

Flanked by swaying willow trees and rushes.

The white of the blackthorn flowers,

The deep shimmering gold of the gorse,

And the green of the newly budding trees caused his heart to sing.

And as if in harmony with his thoughts,

A raven flew overhead,

Wings whistling on the cool air,

Its harsh croak pronouncing the coming of the man for all to hear.

Walking through the valley,

New life unfolding before him,

The man eventually came to the clearest pool of water he had ever seen.

Running from high up on a cliff face and filling a rough stone basin surrounded by delicate ferns,

The water was sweet to the taste,

Yet warm to the touch.

The man drank of the water,

Then turned to survey the valley,

Knowing he had found the place he was searching for.

The man decided to remain in the valley for a year and a day,

During which he witnessed the passing of the springtime,

The scent of the hawthorn,

And the call of the brisk wind through the trees.

He felt the warmth of the summer sun upon his face,

Listened to the drowsy drone of bees,

And watched the tall swaying foxgloves whilst enjoying cool respite beside the river in the heat of the day.

Summer passed and turned to autumn,

Bringing warm gentle rains and fruits hanging heavy on the bough,

Black sloughs and red hawthorn berries finally giving way to winter's crisp white snows and the deep green of the holly.

Throughout this time,

The man revelled in the beauty of nature all around him,

In the passing of the seasons and the turning of the year,

The cycle of new life growing,

Reaching fruition and resting before beginning once more.

During the year and a day,

The man became well known to the local people as one always willing to listen to a trouble,

Heal a wound to the body or soul,

And ever ready to share the little he had with those in need.

He loved the place so much he decided to stay.

The people of the village were happy for him to remain in the valley and looked up to him as a man of pure heart and spirit.

He built a hermitage,

Erecting a simple granite altar which was to remain in place through the wind and the rain,

The sun and the snow,

For hundreds of years,

And he finally became known as a saint,

Leaving his altar,

His love for the valley and the little hermitage as his legacy for generations to follow.

His name was St Clodoris.

Chapter 11 Inbulk Rhiannon peered through the low,

Spreading branches of the beech tree at the line of robed figures weaving their way along the valley towards the little church.

She leaned against the moss-covered bough,

A thin layer of snow still clinging to it,

Noticing a shining patch of bark where her touch over the months had rubbed it smooth.

At last she was rewarded.

Even though the brothers wore their habits of undyed wool with their hoods up against the frosty air and hems close to the ground,

There was no mistaking Clida as he brought up the rest of the procession,

And no mistaking the furtive glance he made towards Rhiannon's hiding place.

She smiled,

A slow,

Satisfied smile.

Although Clida had told her to stay away and leave him in peace,

One glance towards the place they had spent so many hours together assured her his words meant no more than the rustle of the wind through the trees,

And as soon as the snows vanished and the leaves began to bud,

She would lie in his arms once again.

Rhiannon moved away from her peephole and leaned dreamily against the tall rock behind her.

Such a wonderful little hidey-hole,

Perched above the path along the valley,

Yet completely hidden and only accessible by taking the secret,

Scratchy way through the dense undergrowth.

But once there,

The small,

Grassy plateau sheltered by the white rocks behind and massive beech tree in front provided a safe haven from the world.

There was even a small cave,

Which was useful when the mist descended over the valley,

Soaking everything else but leaving the interior dry.

In spring,

The primroses would provide a yellow carpet to lie upon,

Their sweet scent rising all around.

And now clumps of snowdrops pushed their way through the frozen earth,

Their delicate white heads bobbing in defiance of the frost and snow.

All year long,

The ivy stems twisted and turned up the weathered rocks,

Clinging precariously,

Allowing a tumble of glossy green leaves to shade the entrance of the little cave,

Keeping it sheltered in winter,

Yet cool in summer.

Rhiannon liked to pretend she and Cleda lived there.

She preferred to block out the knowledge of his religion,

His beliefs and the calling he was always talking about.

She did not understand the god he spoke of,

Who,

As far as she could see,

Was simply taking over the old festivals and giving them new names.

Once,

Whilst walking along the valley,

She had found a crystal lying in the undergrowth.

A beautiful green and violet crystal,

Which shimmered with a life of its own when she plunged it into the river water to wash it.

She showed it to Cleda,

Offering it to him as a token of her love,

But he had taken scant notice,

And eventually Rhiannon pushed it into the earth at the back of the little cave,

To keep it safe,

Subsequently forgetting all about it.

Rhiannon sighed.

There was no fun in his religion.

Last year,

When the villagers lit the Beltane fires,

And everyone knew it to be a time for lovers and couples to meet with no retribution,

She had been so excited.

She had twisted her long dark hair into a thick plait,

Entwined with spring flowers of celadine and daisy,

Crowned with a circlet of mayflowers.

She felt beautiful,

Her dark eyes cat-like in her impish face,

Aware of the way her deep blue smock clung to her ever more curving figure.

But Cleda had done no more than hold her hand and give her a chest kiss,

Muttering something about needing to get back for prayer.

Since then,

Rhiannon sighed once again,

Wondering if the rest of her life would be spent sighing and waiting for him.

Since then,

Although she had lain in his arms,

Gazing up at the sky through the tangle of leaves and branches,

And,

On occasion,

Been gently kissed,

She relived once more the kisses they shared,

So tender and warm.

Although she felt the passion rising within her,

A delicious and unstoppable force,

Cleda always drew back,

As if a boundary had been reached and he could go no further.

Could not or would not,

Rhiannon was unsure.

All she knew was the more he tantalised her,

Drawing near,

Then pulling away again,

The stronger became her desire to break his iron will,

Despite his religion and beliefs,

Because deep down Rhiannon was sure he wanted her as much as she yearned for him.

It seemed hours until the line of brothers made their way back along the valley,

Hours during which Rhiannon became increasingly chilled as she waited impatiently for them to appear.

The day beginning to darken,

The sky streaking with golden purple,

As the sun sank behind the brow of the hill,

Rhiannon often wondered what on earth the brothers found to do in the little church for so long.

Of course there was the chanting and the prayers,

And sometimes villagers in need of help waited for the brothers to administer simple medicine,

A word of advice or a blessing.

Rhiannon snorted.

In her grandmother's time,

And for as far back as anyone could remember,

The Holy Spring,

Which formed behind the little church,

Had been tended by women who served the community and fulfilled its needs.

Tales still abounded on firelit nights in the depths of winter of healings and prophecies made by the women of the Spring.

There was a story,

The one Rhiannon loved the very best of all,

Of a girl who killed an evil magician with a spear,

Then travelled to the Otherworld to bring back a crystal of power.

She was the first guardian of the Spring,

And it was said her spirit guarded it to this day,

Although she sacrificed her true love,

Whose spirit sometimes took the form of a great white owl,

Which was occasionally to be seen flying,

Swiftly and silently along the valley.

Well,

Thought Rhiannon,

She was not doing much guarding at the moment,

Was she?

Because the Spring and the church were taken over by the brothers,

Their prayers and chants?

Yes,

They ministered to the people and the sick,

But so had the women before them.

It was the same old story.

The men were taking the power from the women and calling it their own,

Just as the new god was taking the old ways and giving them new names.

For a moment Rhiannon felt a surge of anger.

By rights,

She should be the guardian of the Spring now,

Just as the line of women in her family had been before her,

Back into the mists of time.

But St Clodorus had arrived,

Built his hermitage and erected the granite altar.

Although he was long gone,

Across the oceans to spread his word,

The brothers,

Cleda amongst them,

Now controlled the valley,

And all that was left of the women guardians of the Spring existed only in stories and legends.

In moments of insight,

Rhiannon sometimes wondered if her obsession with Cleda was to do with the man himself,

Or the religion and ideas he stood for.

And when she was not thinking about the warmth of his arms,

Or the gentleness of his kisses,

She further wondered if it was really Cleda she loved,

Or whether she simply wanted to gain back the guardianship of the Spring for the people of the valley,

And for herself.