Bedtime Story: Reflections Of The Past: Earth: Chapter 3

Chapter 3 Samhain It was at the time of the final harvest of the year when Rowan first noticed the stoat and the owl.

The fruits hung heavy on the trees,

Augmenting a hard winter to come.

The elderberries bowing in dark clusters on the branches.

Ripe sloughs tinged with hoar as the first frosts appeared,

Causing Rowan's fingers to bleed and her blood to mingle with the redness of their juice as she harvested the fruit for the coming months.

Hawthorn trees turned to twiggy-brown branches,

Stark in the crisp air,

Their shining red berries clustered closely,

And there was an abundance of apples all around,

Which the villagers carefully stored for the winter.

The crops had been safely gathered and it was as she made her way home one day when Rowan first saw the stoat on the path before her,

Eyes bright as jewels in the late afternoon sunlight.

She stopped in her tracks,

Almost holding her breath,

And the stoat had surveyed her for long moments before turning and disappearing into the undergrowth,

Its tail dark against the lighter fur of its body.

Since then,

She had noticed it on several occasions as she made her way to the sacred pool,

And at times almost felt it was waiting for her.

She wondered if it was searching for food,

And once held out a piece of unleavened bread,

But the stoat turned and disappeared into the undergrowth,

Taking no notice of her offering at all.

Then one night,

When the days had darkened to the point when she always made her way back to the huts in gathering twilight,

She first noticed the white owl,

Swift and silent against the darkness of the trees.

She had paused and the owl perched on the twisted branch of an oak tree above her.

She resumed her footsteps and the owl flew ahead,

As if showing her the safest path to take.

This happened time and time again,

Until Rowan began to look for the stoat as she walked to the pool in the mornings,

And the owl on her journey home at night.

And they were almost always there,

One or the other,

Silent guardians watching over her.

And so,

Little sister,

What are your plans on this night?

Rowan turned to find Jun standing behind her.

It was Samhain,

The time of the final harvest of the year.

A time for turning inwards,

Of gathering crops,

Animals and children,

Of barring doors as darkness descended and the thoughts of the villagers turned to surviving whatever nature might decide to throw at them until the midwinter festival and the return of the sun.

If they were lucky.

No one was ever sure why the sun disappeared every year,

And could only assume it was by their efforts,

And their efforts alone,

That it returned just when the night was so long the people began to believe the world would remain forever in a state of perpetual darkness.

This was when Crow,

The village magician,

Came into his own,

Banishing the darkness,

Summoning the light,

And making the world safe once again.

But now was the time of the ancestors,

The time just before the final descent towards the darkest night,

When the villagers honoured those who had walked before and asked for their benevolence during the coming months.

No moon hung in the sky,

But Rowan had never been afraid of the dark and felt a shiver of anticipation of events to come.

Less of the little,

If you don't mind,

Retorted Rowan.

You know very well I am the older of the two of us.

John drew a rueful expression,

Which soon resolved itself in a smile.

As if you'd ever allow me to forget,

He laughed,

As he deftly twirled his spear in the air.

What's that?

What?

Don't play games with me.

Rowan made a grab for the spear which John held aloft and just out of her reach.

My new spear,

Of course.

Show me.

Why?

Rowan scowled and John relented,

Handing the spear to his sister who turned it over in her hands,

Admiring the smoothness of the wood and the symmetry of the delicately carved spearhead inserted into the end,

Fashioned from hard flint,

Slim,

Pointed and dark shining brown.

She felt a sudden shiver,

A premonition of this spear's place in the destiny of events to come,

The history of the future which was nothing to do with the chill of the night.

Did you craft this spearhead?

John nodded,

A shy smile on his face.

It took me two whole moons.

Rowan sighed.

You're so good with your hands.

I wish,

She began,

I just wish.

Shh,

Someone's coming,

Interrupted John.

As Crow,

The village magician appeared,

Bearing a flaming brand in one hand which cast both light and shadow over the deep ravines of his face and caused his ceremonial dress to appear otherworldly in the firelight.

Rowan reluctantly relinquished the spear and as John took it from her,

He felt a shimmer of power not experienced in all the time he'd been crafting it,

The feeling he sometimes had when he lost himself whilst gazing into the sacred pool.

Simultaneously,

Each twin shared the same thought.

They both felt something momentous was about to happen,

But apart from the ceremony of the ancestors and the return of the sun,

Neither of them had the slightest idea what it might be.

The villagers had built a huge bonfire.

It was,

Thought Rowan,

The largest ever,

Made up of everything which needed to be cleared away before the final dip into darkness leading to the shortest day.

This was the practical side of it.

The other reason was to keep the village safe from any wayward or evil spirits which might be abroad on this night,

And finally to welcome the ancestors,

Who everyone knew returned from the otherworld at this time.

There would be feasting,

Stories to be told around the fire,

And oracles spoken.

Crow sometimes saw visions in the flickering flames or in the wood smoke which rose into the dark night air,

Bearing aloft thousands of orange sparks.

He often spoke a prophecy for the cycle of the year to come,

Passed messages from the ancestors,

And gave general advice,

None of which the villagers would dare ignore.

There was a general excitement in the air,

But Rowan always loved the time when the ceremony was almost over and the villagers,

Tired from feasting and storytelling,

Began to yawn and return to their huts.

This was when the flames of the fire turned from bright orange to a mellow yellow,

Gently caressing the wood and turning the embers from deep red to white as the ash formed upon them,

Continually moving like writhing snakes within the flames.

This was also when the fire was at its hottest,

It was difficult to get close,

And when she felt more at one with the world than at any other time during the celebrations.

But now the evening was just beginning,

Twilight was deepening,

And everyone gathered to enjoy the fruits of their hard work.

Having toiled all summer over the crops,

This was a special evening when they were to roast the hog they had been fattening all year,

And Crow had intimated he had something important to reveal afterwards.

Crow Rowan watched as he approached,

Bearing his flaming firebrand,

For as village magician it was his duty and honour to light the ritual fire.

Rowan's brow furrowed,

She had never trusted him ever since she was a little girl,

There was something she could not quite define,

But only identify as a feeling deep inside which she was unable to ignore.

Crow and her father were the two most powerful men in the village,

But whereas she watched her father as chief of the villagers carry out his duty to protect the people to the best of his ability,

Although Crow was held in awe and viewed with respect,

Something told Rowan he was more interested in himself.

And he knew that she knew.

She did not know how or why,

She simply did.

Now he was dressed in all of his raven-feathered finery,

His skin dived with deep blue signs and symbols of which only he knew the meaning,

And had hitherto not passed on to another being.

Around his shoulders he wore the sacred deerskin,

And on his head a pair of antlers.

Rowan had a vague memory these once belonged to her father,

But lately seemed to have been in Crow's possession.

All around his waist hung the feathers of ravens,

Crows and magpies,

Symbols of the birds of carrion.

Something troubled Rowan,

Like the sting of a wasp on a summer's day,

Sudden and unexpected,

Or the bite of the horsefly,

Which would fester as poison gathered in the wound,

And become an itchy mound,

Relieved only when the tension was finally broken and the poison drained away.

Rowan shook her head.

Fanciful,

She told herself.

She was the twin who wanted to be the warrior,

Not some girl sitting around with sights and visions of the future,

For which she fully admitted she had no skill at all.

But just the same,

Every time she looked at Crow,

The feeling of disquiet returned.

It was more than simply a young girl being frightened by the garb of the village magician,

And try as she might,

Nothing she could do would make it go away.

Now,

Which is which?

Sometimes even I can't tell the two of you apart.

Rowan and John turned to find their father standing behind them,

A fond smile upon his face.

He could be forgiven,

Thought Rowan,

For from the back they did indeed appear similar,

Especially on a dark night and wearing cloaks.

Although it was traditional for the women to allow their hair to grow long during the summer,

Rowan had rebelled,

Chopping her dark hair until the curls lay in a tangle around her feet.

This had come about in a fit of pique when she had not been allowed to join John in learning how to craft a spear and throw it straight and true.

Rowan fumed with fury,

And although she reluctantly returned to the sacred pool as bidden,

From her vantage point could clearly see John on the hillside across the valley and wished with all her might she could have joined him.

Running her hair through her shortened curls and admonishing herself for her temper,

She mused how the act had done her no good at all.

She had been in trouble for her disobedience,

Of course,

But for now she and John,

Bearing in mind her tall,

Willowy figure,

Which did not yet show the curves of the other village girls,

Looked very much alike.

In fact,

Rowan rather enjoyed playing the game of drawing up her hood and pretending to be her brother,

Drifting on the outskirts of the groups of men,

Listening to their conversation and talk of livestock and farming,

Weapons and fighting,

Without anyone realising who she really was.

Which was how she came to know of what Crow was to speak that very night.