Bedtime Story: Reflections Of The Past: Earth: Chapter 4

Chapter 4 Dearman had dreamed of the valley long before he ever saw it in reality,

Often waking from a trance-induced state to find the lingering essence of the place still with him.

Something about rocks and rivers,

Lush vegetation,

And always on the peripheral of his vision a girl guarding something,

And he was aware she needed his help and he had to find her.

As time progressed the dreams became more frequent,

Until he knew his drumming and trance-like state would transport him to the place although he had no idea where it was in reality.

He visited for more than the entire turning of a year,

More lately under guise of Stoat and Owl.

Until the feeling became so insistent he realised he needed to search for the valley himself,

As a man,

For whatever was waiting there was a part of his destiny.

Dearman finally found the valley and the girl on the night of the Festival of the Ancestors.

For days he had been walking,

Leaving his high moorland stone circle and striding to the south,

Towards the green of the trees and the valleys and hills,

And it was at the brink of twilight on a late autumn evening when he finally came upon it.

He recognised the place at once.

There was something about the curve of the hill and the pinnacles of rock,

The rushing river below,

And the small village nestling amongst the greenery which confirmed this was what he had been searching for.

He had visited it so often in other forms,

Swift and instantaneous,

Although this time he had been walking for days,

Led purely by blind intuition and trust,

Each step bringing him closer to his destination.

It was as if a path of silver led the way,

Shining faintly before him whenever he faltered,

And he followed it implicitly,

Logic admonishing him for being fanciful,

Instinct assuring him otherwise.

He had always sensed the lines of power which ran beneath the surface of the earth,

Criss-crossing at special sacred points,

And intuition told him it was towards one of these he was being led.

Finally he found himself on the uppermost pinnacle of rock with a view of the valley below,

And it was obvious the villagers were preparing for the great feast of the last harvest and the honouring of the ancestors before the onset of winter.

Although he longed to be closer,

Dimmon knew any stranger would be treated with suspicion,

Especially on this night,

And certainly a stranger such as himself,

Dressed in animal skins,

His kilt of stoat-tails,

White owl-feathers entwined in the dark plaits of his hair,

And bearing his twisted wooden staff and sacred drum.

He could make out the forms of people below,

Amidst which he noticed two figures in dark cloaks who looked similar but which he knew instinctively to be different.

There was a solid,

Enduring-looking man,

Who he immediately took to be the chief of the people,

And finally standing out because of his attire,

Because of the antlers upon his head and the animal skin wrapped around him,

As well as his stance of self-importance,

The village magician.

Dimmon narrowed his eyes,

Even from where he was standing,

When he looked at the figure he sensed danger and he saw death.

Dimmon knew he had been guided to the place for a reason.

He touched the stoat-tails hanging from his waist,

Felt again the strong wily power and the essence of the creature within,

Briefly smelt the raw animal smell of stoat,

The rush of energy,

The sudden fire in his head,

And then he was gone,

Leaving only a rustle in the undergrowth as he made his way towards the gathering below.

Dimmon settled himself at the edge of the circle of firelight to watch the proceedings,

Near enough for his nut-brown eyes and sharp ears to take in all which was happening,

Far enough away to make his escape if necessary.

Before long the villagers had partaken of the roasted hog and consumed copious amounts of drink brewed from crab-apples and sweetened with blackberries and elderberries,

The combination of which made them increasingly noisy,

Despite the solemnity of the occasion.

He sniffed and his heightened sense of smell detected another odour amongst that of hog,

Alcohol and humans,

Herbs which he recognised from his shamanic travels had been added to the fire,

Herbs which Dimmon knew would induce a trance in the initiated and allow access to the hidden realms,

But when used on the unwary could cause drowsiness,

And he wondered if their burning by the village magician served a two-fold purpose.

From his vantage point Dimmon could see the magician strutting amongst the people,

An air of self-importance about him,

His ceremonial dress causing him to stand out in the flickering firelight.

He also noticed the two figures he had seen before,

The same yet different,

And to Dimmon in his guise as a stoat and with heightened intuition and perception,

These seemed to be the three most important people in the entire gathering.

Dimmon sensed a change in atmosphere and noticed the magician had struck his staff into the ground and was standing beside it,

His arms held wide to the night sky.

At the top of the staff a crystal glowed blood-red in the firelight,

Reflecting the light of a thousand spirals of energy.

The magician moved not a muscle,

But one by one the villagers fell silent,

Aware their time of solemnity was upon them.

As the evening drew to a close and the fire burnt lower,

The orange sparks no longer raging into the blackness of the night sky with their cloak of grey smoke,

A hush descended upon the crowd.

No moon could be seen,

For it would be three days before the new crescent appeared above the horizon,

And for the first time in her life Rowan realised how she waited for the moon to return,

Feeling a shiver of relief to see it hanging low on the skyline following the darkness beforehand.

People,

Hear my words.

Crow's voice rang out into the night and there was a respectful hush.

He glanced around at the faces of the villagers,

Serious and a little ill at ease in the remaining glow of the firelight,

Their previous good spirits and revelry completely forgotten.

The ancestors are calling,

He began,

Dropping his voice so they all strained to hear and were impelled to move a step closer.

They have messages for us which must be heard,

Important messages.

He paused,

Eyes peering around with relish,

Feeling the power within him,

The power of manipulation of the masses,

The power he knew would soon be his.

Ignore these words at your peril,

For their prophecy is thus.

He allowed his voice to rise in strength and deepen in resonance,

Waiting just a moment longer than was necessary,

Aware of the silence in the valley save for the crackle of the fire and the far-off hoot of an owl.

Somewhere nearby a fox barked and in the undergrowth an animal rustled the dryness of the bracken.

Then all again was still.

When the sun disappears on the day when the night is at its longest,

Crow paused dramatically,

Allowing a moment of complete silence before continuing.

When the sun disappears on the day when night is at its longest,

He repeated,

This time it will not return.

The world will remain forever in darkness.

There was a collective gasp.

Crow smiled,

A slow cynical smile,

Taking in the confusion of the villagers,

Allowing them a few fear-filled moments before he spoke again.

But there may be some way to avoid this,

He continued,

Before anyone had a chance to ask any questions.

If you will pay heed to my words and the advice of the ancestors.

Rowan narrowed her eyes.

It was all falling into place now.

The conversation she had overheard earlier as she passed a small group of men,

Her cloak covering her head in the darkness on the outskirts of the firelight,

Slowly began to make sense.

She had only heard snatches,

But it had been enough to cause her heart to fill with dread.

Treasure,

She overheard Crow whisper to his group of followers.

Beneath the sacred pool,

He held out his hand and on his palm something glinted in the firelight.

Rowan had frowned,

A memory stirring in her mind.

Was it only a moon ago when John had pulled the sparkling crystal from the depths of the sacred pool and warned her to take care of it?

And what had she done?

As far as she remembered,

Tossed it back and promptly forgotten all about it.

Perhaps Crow himself had discovered it.

Perhaps,

Despite her derision at John's words,

It really was treasure and maybe,

The thought rushed into Rowan's head on wings of fear,

Maybe Crow wanted to plunder the sacred pool to discover more treasure for himself.

For an instant,

Rowan realised this would be her key to freedom,

An end to her sacred duties.

Something she had wished for as long as she could remember.

And yet,

Something told her it was intrinsically wrong.

The thought of the sacred pool being plundered caused her stomach to knot so tightly she felt physically sick and the knowledge the people were being led astray by Crow,

A thought she was unable to tolerate.

Now it all began to make sense.

Crow was using his position to his own ends to gain more power over the villagers and claim the treasure he believed to be beneath the sacred pool for himself.

And only Rowan could stop him.

She grimaced into the darkness,

A dark parody of a because for all her thoughts of being a warrior,

She simply did not know what to do.

That Crow had made his plans well,

She had no doubt.

How to stop him,

She had absolutely no idea.

What must we do?

Rowan's father was speaking now,

His strong tone of leadership calming the people into a sense of security,

Trusting all would be well in the end.

Tell us and we will do your bidding.

Crow smiled,

Then frowned.

This was much easier than he had expected.

They were fools,

All of them,

Hanging on to his every word.

By the time the day of darkness arrived the sacred pool would be no more than a muddy ditch,

The water running away into a boggy marsh.

The villagers would believe he had saved them,

And when the sun returned,

As it always did,

He would be far away with the treasure he was certain was buried beneath the pool.

He raised his arms to the sky once more and stood for long moments,

Trance-like,

Before he spoke again.

In order to save the village,

The people,

Our valley,

His voice rang out loud and strong into the silence of the night,

And not a sound could be heard save the tiny rustle of a creature in the undergrowth.

To save the village,

The people,

Our valley,

We must dig up and sacrifice the sacred pool.

There was silence,

Then a sudden uproar.

Voices raised in confusion and outrage.

What will we do without our sacred pool?

This cannot be so.

Never.

Rowan glanced around,

Hope springing into her heart.

The people would not allow it,

Would never listen to Crow.

Her sacred and beautiful pool would be safe.

For the first time in her life,

She realised how much she loved it.

Crow raised his arms once more,

And one by one,

The people fell silent.

The ancestors have spoken,

Was all he said.

Glancing around,

Rowan saw a look of confusion on the faces of the people,

Uncertain now they were confronted with the wishes of the ancestors.

This,

She realised,

Was Crow's best ploy yet.

Even her father was standing deep in thought,

And suddenly Rowan knew with those few simple words,

Crow had run the people over.

In time,

He would have his way.

No,

Her voice rang out,

As unexpected to herself as those around her.

Rowan strode forward,

Her cloak flying behind her.

She turned to face the people.

I am the guardian of the sacred pool,

She cried,

And I tell you all,

This cannot be allowed to happen.

At first,

She thought she had made a difference.

She saw John glance about him,

Caught his eye through the dimness of the night,

And for a moment they were as one,

For she knew he wanted to stop this desecration and treachery as much as she.

In that second,

After all the years of fighting,

Rowan understood her role in life,

And realised just what it was she had been guarding.

Crow threw back his head and laughed,

A hollow sound which rang eerily into the night sky.

You,

He pointed one knobbly finger towards her,

And Rowan felt herself shrinking before him.

You,

Whose idea of guarding the sacred pool is to lie in the sun all day,

Watching the clouds and tossing pebbles into the water.

You,

Who would prefer to change your sacred duties for those of a warrior,

Rather than learn the mysteries to which you should by now have been initiated,

Had you been worthy.

In the remaining light of the fire,

Rowan flushed,

For Crow was right.

What had she done with her guardianship of the pool?

She realised now how shoddily she had treated something so precious.

You will not only have Rowan to answer to,

But me also.

John stepped forward from the shadows and there was a collective gasp.

As the chief's firstborn son and prospective leader of the people,

He held a little more sway.

He glanced towards their father,

Expecting him to take the matter into his own hands,

But found him looking strangely disorientated,

And he made no move to help.

Suddenly,

From beneath the folds of his animal skin,

Crow grew out the sparkling crystal he had stolen from the sacred pool.

He held it high in the air,

And the firelight glinted upon it,

Sending out a rainbow of colour and causing it to glow with a life of its own.

He who bears this sacred crystal shall be all-powerful,

He cried into the night sky.

And so beautiful did the crystal appear in the flickering firelight against the blackness of the night,

None dared to question him.

The ancestors have spoken,

Repeated Crow simply,

A cruel smile playing about his lips,

As he replaced the crystal once more within the folds of his clothing.

And both Rowan and John knew in that moment,

Their battle had only just begun.