Concentric Circles (20 page)

[12] Saying Goodbye

The news of Amethyst’s death had spread quickly. Well-known in the Westlands as a philanthropist and spiritual warrior, the local churches resurrected their old custom of placing a light within windows designed for the purpose of guiding wanderers through the marshy lands around Glastonbury. Electric lights had been dimmed last night, bringing the golden glow to the prominent attention of local residents.

Shayla craned her neck, gazing at the ribbons tied in the branches of Old Magog. An ancient sentinel, the enormous oak overlooked the surrounding landscape with primordial power. Magog’s story could be seen in her gnarled bark. Once a significant part of the Avalon Oaks, she and Gog, her partner, marked the traditional entrance to the island in a bygone era when water surrounded the blessed grounds of Glastonbury.

Her vacation to this sacred place had become overwhelmed with the urgency of meeting Meekal. There had been no time for sightseeing. Now, in the wake of a devastating death, she took a break to wander the countryside. The rough feel of the tree’s skin beneath her palm whispered the truth of its history. Shayla allowed a small smile to lift the corners of her mouth.

Having attributes of a Fae definitely proved advantageous. No wonder she had always loved being surrounded by nature—it spoke to her like no other. In view of the old tree’s perspective, she could visualize the former avenue of mighty oaks, bordering the ageless pilgrim’s path, serving as both welcoming committee and protectors of the wayfaring seekers of shelter, new knowledge and hope.

The laughter of many generations of playing children echoed from her branches, eliciting tears of regret from Shayla that no one ever came and played among the spreading arms anymore. Protected for all posterity, people now kept a respectful distance.

That is until Amethyst’s death.

The night before, candles carried there by mourners lit up through Magog’s branches as one by one, people who knew and cherished Amethyst remembered she had loved playing around the tree in her youth. Thus, the multi-colored tributes tied and laced around the reaching wooden fingers.

Fall sunshine slanted through Magog’s nearly bare branches, leaving araneous lines of shadow on the leaf covered ground beneath the massive old oak. The ribbons, tied there by Amethyst’s many friends, glistened in the brightness, dancing on the fall breath, singing with snapping voices of remembrance. Across the countryside, the tributes from people of all ages represented the wide spread goodness of one downed by evil.

The cool breeze whipped Shayla’s jacket loose, swooping up the hem of her sweater, bringing gooseflesh in its wake. She shivered and pulled the front together, buttoning it tightly against Mother Nature’s proclamation of coming colder weather.

A dark purple lacy ribbon attempted to blow away, brushing against her cheek. Shayla became aware that moisture spread on her face. Friendship, no matter how new, pulled at her heart. Amethyst had been an extremely kind person from the moment Shayla arrived at the Bristol Airport.

The devastating loss Shayla experienced stemmed not only from the shock of sudden horrific death, but also of lost possibilities. She would never get to know the woman on a deeper level. She sighed, thinking of Gail’s red-rimmed eyes and Meekal’s gray face. Their mourning would mark them for some time.

She fingered the ribbon and reattached it with a silent prayer. “Blessed be,” she whispered, caressing its softness. She pulled away in slow motion, stroking the low branch. It was time to meet Meekal and go to the funeral.

* * * * * *

Still a bit green around the gills, Meekal stood at the entrance to St. Mary’s Chapel, greeting mourners who passed through the arched stone doorway.

Shayla approached and gave him a quick hug. “Sorry I’m late,” she whispered into his ear.

“That’s all right. You didn’t miss much.”

“I know how lost you feel. I want to be here for you.”

The arrangements for Amethyst’s funeral had taken up most of the night and early morning. Preparing the roofless St. Mary’s Chapel for visitors during the chilly season proved no small task. Shayla had been amazed when she discovered the ceremony would be held within these hallowed walls.

Topless and windowless, it stood in majestic beauty on the Abbey grounds. Joseph had fashioned a clear top, magically invisible to the naked eye. Its presence would help to preserve some of the warmth generated by strategically placed heaters, fueled by modern generators.

The last mourners entered. Meekal folded her hand into the crook of his arm and led the way. They walked toward the front between the folding white chairs now occupied by tearful observers. She tried to calm her rushing heart.

Whispers of curiosity reached her ears. People wondered who she was. She hoped her part in the ceremony would not be frowned upon. In an attempt to feel reassurance, she clutched the silk lavender bag containing the items Joseph had requested she collect during her countryside wanderings.

The slow, step by step journey up the center isle gave her the opportunity to gather her thoughts and observe Joseph who would serve as chief mourner. The minister, standing to the left behind a podium, looked respectfully official in his black robes. The unity of different religious beliefs represented here between the interior arcading walls of St. Mary’s Chapel gave witness to Amethyst Graham’s benevolent spirit.

The bier beneath the white casket bore the carvings of the Vesica Piscis. The concentric circles embellished with gold and silver caught the afternoon sun. With a deep refreshing breath, Shayla squeezed Meekal’s hand and stepped up onto the stone riser in accompaniment of his actions.

Despite the crowd, silence dominated within the stone walls.

Joseph, face lined with sorrow and weariness, raised his palms heavenward. Everyone stood, heads bowed in remembrance.

The moisture welled once more behind Shayla’s eyelids when the sound of bagpipes came into the chapel. She knew they were close, within the broken arch of the Abbey, playing their lament.

The music brought back memories of Kat MacGreggor practicing her pipes under the Everett Road covered bridge back home in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. The acoustics there were optimal for listening pleasure.

The sounds today, passing around and through gothic arches hummed in her senses, journeying on the earth’s ley lines into infinity.  The renewed urge for home constricted her heart.

Meekal, sensing her distress, squeezed her hand.

She gave him a responsive tightening. Mom. Torn between her new life and roots of home and hearth, Shayla clung to the present moment.
Meekal
, she whispered repeatedly in her mind. Gradually, her heart relaxed into a steady rhythm, beating in tandem with his.

The last notes of the bagpipes resonated along the stones and hushed quiet returned.

“Everyone, please be seated.” Joseph’s strong baritone voice gave the impression of calmness and fortitude. Rustlings filled the silence as the mourners tried to get comfortable in the wooden chairs.

“We are gathered here for a brief ceremony. Amethyst touched so many in her lifetime.” His eyes crinkled into a soft smile. “As a child, she was surrounded with mischief. I remember many escapades that would curl your hair.” Sad laughter shook his shoulders. “I’ll keep it short because I realize many of you may wish to speak. Despite her reputation for orneriness, I prefer to tell you of the first time I met Amethyst.”

His throat constricted with emotion and he raised a hand to brush moisture away quickly. “I was a small lad, lost in the countryside. Too young to wander off, I found myself frightened and scraped from a fall. I sat on a stone next to an old pilgrim’s trail. Despite my youth, I knew I would be in serious trouble once I arrived back at home. Amidst my tears, Amethyst floated down out of the branches of Old Magog and knelt to comfort me. She was an angel in the eyes of a six year old that day.” Finished, Joseph turned to Shayla.

She stepped forward and reached into the silk bag. The branch with one leaf still attached whispered to her soul. She pulled it from the sheltering depths and handed it carefully to Joseph.

“This fine young lady is Shayla Brinawell,” Joseph said. “She is here with Meekal as a representative of Amethyst’s newest friendship. The branch she just gave me comes from Magog, one of the sentinels into Glastonbury’s Somerset. You see, Amethyst broke a branch from that gnarled old tree that day. She told me it had magical powers and would guide me home. She knew who I was, of course. She just thought I should find my own way, like the pilgrims of old. Her voice was sweet and her confidence boundless. I set off on my sojourn arriving home in time for tea. Hehem. And a rousing spanking.”

Chuckles passed through the crowd.

“I discovered later,” Joseph said, pausing to laugh softly, “by listening to conversations through keyholes that twelve year old Amethyst had kept a vigilant eye on me all the way home.”

Meekal smirked at his grandfather.

Joseph became serious. “She never changed. From that first encounter to the night she left us, Amethyst Elisabeth Cumyn Graham watched over our community with constant vigilance and boundless love. She will be missed greatly, but for the knowledge that her spirit is here with us in the same capacity of guardian. For without death, we cannot experience the boundlessness of heaven and rebirth.” Joseph turned and placed the branch, intertwining it with the purple blanket of roses embellishing the white iridescent finish of the casket. “Meekal,” Joseph said and gave center stage to his grandson.

“Keyholes, Grandfather? Thank you for that little tidbit of information. I’ll remember it always.” He cleared his throat and pushed his hand through his hair. “I could begin by telling you that Amethyst was there when I took my first steps.”

Someone snorted.

“Oh wait, I just did.” Meekal shrugged with humor. “She wouldn’t want us to be sad. I know this because she is one of the people who taught me about heaven and its splendor. I was seven. I knew of it from church—she just had a unique perspective that made it more real. As you can see, she has always had a strong influence on the Chilkwells.” He dropped his gaze and took a deep breath. “Watching over us. Guiding us,” he murmured low as though caught up somewhere in a memory.

Joseph placed a bracing hand on his shoulder.

“Aye,” Meekal whispered. He raised his face and scanned the mourners. “She taught me many things that I will always remember. Her positive influence is a part of me—my soul, so to speak.” Obviously having difficulty speaking, Meekal stiffened.

Shayla moved forward and wrapped her fingers in his. He gave her a sad smile and blinked the moisture from his eyes.

“Recently—” Meekal’s voice broke. A sob came forth.

She leaned closer.

Meekal met her gaze, eyes wet, spiraling in emotional realization and turmoil. “She passed the torch.” He pulled his fingers away and brushed them over his cheeks. “I didn’t comprehend it until this very moment. She was there, even in ‘that’ moment. I’m sorry, I just never realized and I didn’t thank her.” Meekal’s steadfastness dissolved. He crumpled onto Shayla’s shoulder, shaking and crying in mournful grief. “Thank her.”

“Shush,” Shayla said, rubbing his back. She had the odd sense that the only sound in the whole world at that moment came from Meekal. Everything else slid away into a vast nothingness. His twisting heart and the moisture on her neck from tears were all that existed. Strong arms encircled them both. Awareness returned, followed by sounds of other mournful keening. She chewed her lip and stepped back, fingers lingering in Meekal’s hand.

Clutching the silk bag, she stood next to the casket. Reaching in, she extracted the two small bottles of water. “I haven’t known Amethyst long.” The glass clinked in her palm. “Only a short time ago, she greeted me at the Bristol Airport. I understand she has done that many times. For me, it was significant because I have never been so far from home. I came here seeking, like many others.”

A child’s plaintive cry drew her attention. She sucked her lip in for an instant and then continued. “The waters of the Chalice Well call to us who seek healing. I’m one of those. My family tree became fragmented through tragedy.”

Harry’s face in the front row caught her gaze. She gave him a trembling smile. “I discovered family I never knew existed and the boundlessness of eternal love. Today for Amethyst, I wish to give her the gift of these vials of water.”

“One is from the Chalice Well, red and rich in minerals. The other is from the White Spring. Their complementary polarity maintains the nature, health and harmony of this land that she loved. She longed for the return of understanding of the importance of the White Spring. I respect her wishes and hope to advocate its rebirth. Thank you for allowing me to speak today.” Shayla tied the glass vials to Magog’s branch with white satin ribbon. The silkiness of a rose petal caressed her fingers.

Gail approached the stone riser. Shrouded in white, she gave the appearance of an angel. Murmuring rose from the back of the chapel, rushing toward the front where its energy was silenced with rough glares.

Shayla embraced her. “It’ll be all right,” she whispered.

Trembling visibly, Gail rubbed her palm over the gleaming white casket, pausing on the latch to open it.

Joseph stayed her movement, shaking his head in discouragement. “It won’t help,” he said low so only those in close proximity could hear.

Her fingers gripped in stubborn insistence. The exertion required apparently drained Gail. She gazed at the crowd from the left side of the chapel to the right, her face showing grief and regret. “I won’t say much. I know my presence here offends some. Amethyst knew I loved her. That’s all that matters now.” She smoothed her tearstained handkerchief next to the roses and left the chapel, walking its full length with her head held high.

Joseph, restrained anger in his voice, spoke once more. “Father Dunstan, perhaps you’d lead us in prayer.” The dismissive tone cut the ceremony short.