Shaman of Stonewylde (61 page)

At this, Yul slumped down onto the seat again and began to cry into his hands. His dark curls fell over his face and his shoulders heaved as raw sobs engulfed him.

‘Please, Sylvie, I beg you! Please don’t—’

But she turned away and headed for the door. She felt so dead inside that even the sight of his distress didn’t touch her. As she yanked open the door, wanting only to escape his company, the baby leapt again in her womb as if in protest at her anger. But Sylvie marched down the wide staircase, grabbed her coat and hat from the cloakroom off the entrance hall, and set off down to the Village which she now thought of as home. As she hurried back to the comfort of Maizie’s warm cottage, tears streamed down her face. But surely, she thought fiercely, brushing them away, they were only from the biting wind and nothing to do with the final break-up of her once beautiful marriage.

29

R
ufus knocked on the door of the cottage, glad to see that today there was smoke coming from the chimney. Inside he found Yul sitting in the old rocking chair by the fire gazing into the flames. The crow with the white tail-feather roosted peacefully up in the rafters, head tucked under its wing. Yul looked up blearily at the boy who’d brought cold air and the real world into his cocoon of isolation.

‘More provisions from Marigold,’ Rufus said quietly, putting some of the food into the little meat-safe at the coldest end of the cottage. He noticed the remains of last night’s meal still lying on the table; judging by the mess, the crow had pecked at most of it. An empty mead bottle also sat on the table, and in the corner the bedclothes were messed up in a heap on the hard settle. It was warm and reasonably cosy, but Yul wasn’t looking too good.

Rufus refilled the water jar at the spring and scraped the remains of yesterday’s food onto the hard ground outside for the foxes. He checked the firewood situation and saw it was getting low. Back in the flickering warmth of the cottage, he put the kettle on to boil.

‘Did you bring more mead?’ asked Yul, rousing himself from his reverie.

‘No, sorry. I didn’t think you’d need any more yet.’

‘Well, I do. Make sure you bring more tomorrow, would you?’

Rufus nodded, making them both a mug of herbal tea. He
pulled
the other chair over to the hearth and sat down next to Yul. Their legs, stretched out before them, were almost identical in length and this gave Rufus a burst of pleasure. He’d be fourteen at Imbolc and was proud to be nearly as tall as his brother already.

‘Leveret asks whether you’ll come to her Story Web tomorrow, for Yule?’

Yul shook his head, his face impassive. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days and was starting to look unkempt.

‘Tell her I’m sorry but I just can’t face everyone at the moment. It was bad enough at the Winter Solstice ceremony.’

Rufus nodded again, thinking back to the sadness of the proceedings in the Stone Circle. Yul had stood on the Altar Stone alone, as he usually did for the ceremony, wearing the sumptuous Solstice robes. But Clip, Martin and Sylvie were all missing from the ritual, which Yul had deliberately cut short by leaving out many of the chants. Others had helped with the mead and cakes but had somehow lacked Martin’s solemnity. Sylvie had stood at the back with Maizie and the girls, and folk had nodded at this, understanding her reasons. Leveret had stayed in the tower on Hazel’s insistence; she was having one of her bad days when her head hurt and limbs shook.

Rufus had felt so sorry for Yul, knowing he was doing his best whilst his heart was breaking. The boy vowed that at the next festival he’d help Yul, and later when he’d told Leveret about it all, she’d promised she would too. Afterwards, Yul hadn’t bothered going back to the Great Barn for the celebrations. Instead he’d stumbled up to Mother Heggy’s cottage, having found solace here at the Hunter’s Moon. Somehow, Leveret had known where he was and when Rufus called on her in the tower, she’d told him to care for his brother while he needed it, for nobody else could do it. While filled with concern for Yul, Rufus couldn’t believe his luck at being given such an opportunity.

The Barn, full of Yule decorations, was magical. Candles twinkled, evergreens hung from every point, and mistletoe was bunched
in
profusion. Everyone had gathered for the lighting of the Yule log, which always took place a few days after the Solstice at Yule. Leveret had arranged to do a Story Web after the log was lit. She was nervous and didn’t really feel ready for such a demanding task, but she knew that something was needed to bring the folk back together again. Seven weeks on from Samhain, everyone was still in shock from the tragic events and their awful consequences. Folk were bemused by talk of the healing centre, and with Rowan, Faun and Swift having left, Stonewylde felt in turmoil. Everyone was confused and in need of solidarity.

Leveret had Magpie to assist her. She’d decided to keep the event very simple with no theatricals, and wasn’t really sure what would happen. The folk gathered early and the place was packed; almost everyone in the community who was able to come did so, wanting to show their support for the young girl who’d been so cruelly robbed of her eyesight. Leveret wore a simple fine woollen robe of dark green, as befitted the festival. Her hair hadn’t been cut since last Imbolc when she’d moved out of Maizie’s cottage, and fell right down her back in a wild tumble of dark curls. On the stage was a small fire-cauldron to provide some aromatic smoke, and, unexpectedly, the carved chair from the Galleried Hall, with the boars’ head arms. Nobody admitted to bringing this down, but there it was and it seemed fitting as the Shaman’s chair.

When all was quiet, Leveret walked through the channel in the crowd, flanked by Magpie who carried the basket, and Shadow. She sat down in the ancient chair and, as she settled and calmed her wildly-beating heart, she was enveloped by something strange emanating from the wood itself. She knew, instinctively, that it was yew and so right for the occasion – the tree of rebirth and regeneration. In the deep silence, with all eyes upon them, Magpie carefully put Hare onto her lap. He then took up the hare headdress, made so lovingly by Clip, and placed it on her head. Leveret hadn’t worn this since the time on Snake Stone; for a moment, she was back there with the brilliant white moon blazing down, her clothes lying at her feet and
the
knowledge in her heart that she’d embrace the Dark Angel rather than submit to Jay’s intent.

Magpie threw a handful of herbs onto the fire and then moved out of sight. The lights were low and a single soft spotlight shone down on Leveret. She was once more the Hare Woman of Stonewylde as she sat straight-backed and rock-still in the aromatic smoke that swirled around her. Shadow lay at her feet and all eyes were fixed on this strange girl. Everyone wondered what story she’d tell them tonight, at Yule, when Herne the Hunter was loose in the forest and the sun had passed its lowest point at the Solstice.

‘Folk of Stonewylde, gather round,’ she began, her sightless eyes scanning the crowds. Everyone shivered, for it was as if she could see each one of them, and see not only their Yule finery and excited cheeks, but inside their hearts as well. Every person sat up a little straighter and stared a little more intently at the Hare Woman of Stonewylde as she began, slowly, to weave her story of the myths of midwinter magic.

She spoke of the hunt and the chase, the endless and ancient quest for survival in the face of cold and hunger. She spoke of tribes and firelight, caves and magic, of totem animals and shamanic powers. She told her people how it felt to be safe and warm inside whilst wolves howled in the snowstorm outside. She spoke of blood ties, of the bonds and loyalties of the tribe and how the folk of Stonewylde had stayed together, cared for one another and thereby become strong. She described the beautiful and abundant land around them with fresh spring water flowing into a river, clay and reeds for brick, pots and thatch, stone for cutting and woodland aplenty for firewood and building. She painted the picture of a land of fertile earth, sheltered from the harshest of weather by rolling hills and the soft sea breezes that blew in warm. It was a land where crops could grow and animals could thrive, so that the folk wanted for nothing. And when the tribe had grown so strong and healthy, with their elders living for many winters and becoming old and wise, and their babes surviving and growing into sturdy children who ate
well
and learned new skills – then the people wanted to give thanks to the Goddess who walked the sacred land. They wished to mark the places in their lands where they felt her magical energy the strongest.

A special place was built, and it took many winters and many generations of strong men before it was complete, although from the very first day when the ground had been cleared, it had become a sacred circle. Generations of Stonewylde folk had laboured and sweated and had given their best to build the circle and make it the most beautiful, most perfect arena in the entire land. They’d placed the great stones with precision, taking many measurements over the years to accurately mark the exact points in the turning wheel of the year where the sun would rise or set and where the moon would appear. When the great stones were finally in their proper places, they’d painted them with pictures and symbols to enhance their magic. They’d built hallowed fires inside the circle and had drummed and danced, feeling the spirals of magical, earth energy beneath their feet, knowing that truly they were blessed to live in such a place.

Others from weaker tribes Outside would visit Stonewylde bearing gifts, begging to be permitted to see the wondrous Stone Circle of legend, surrounded by sacred oak trees. They would creep in anticipation down the Long Walk leading to the magical arena, leaving their gifts on the stones that marked the way. They would enter the consecrated circle and gaze in awe and wonder at the massive painted stones, feel the immense throb of energy that danced in the place, and overwhelmed, they would fling themselves to the ground and embrace the living magic of the place.

Sometimes the Goddess of Stonewylde would bless them with her Green Magic, making them strong if they were in good health, and making them healthy if they were sick. She would fill them with her power, and so they became whole and healed. Slowly word spread throughout the lands and even across the seas, and people travelled to Stonewylde from far and wide. They came on pilgrimages to visit the sacred place that the folk
had
built. Some would also discover the magical places that weren’t marked quite so obviously – the even older circle right here within the Village, and the hill where the hares loved to dance the moon spirals, the cave where the owls flew by and the wolves would howl. All these blessed places of Stonewylde became the stuff of legend, and folk journeyed far from other lands just to be there, to be permitted to stay a while and be healed.

Leveret paused here, and Magpie rose silently to take Hare from her lap. Leveret stood confidently, clasping Clip’s ash staff in one hand and the leather collar around Shadow’s neck in the other. The flickering firelight illuminated her golden-furred and long-eared headdress, and her dark green dress that flowed to the ground. Leveret began to step round the stage, and people forgot that she was blind because their Shaman had the true sight, and she would not falter or stumble. She paced the circle, the staff raised high and the grey dog by her side, and they felt her power and her wisdom.

‘Folk of Stonewylde, we’ve seen difficult times. We’ve suffered losses and betrayals. But these things pass and we now move on to better, happier times. We are the same tribe as our ancestors. Their blood still flows in our veins. We are made of the same stuff as them, passed down through the ages to us today. We still hold the sacred land and the Goddess still walks here, blessing us with her bounty and her favour. We are honoured by her and now we must once again share her special magic with others who need it. We must once more let other folk who need to be healed come into our lands, be welcomed by our tribe, and be permitted to cast themselves on the sacred earth here and be made whole again.’

She stopped in the centre of the stage and raised the heavy staff towards the roof. Above her hung a great bough of mistletoe, moving slightly in the heat.

‘Folk of Stonewylde – the shadows that blighted our land are receding. The darkness and evil I spoke of before, in this very place, are now gone. They were banished by our beloved Clip,
by
the sacrifice he made for us all at Samhain. The vipers have been cast out, and, as the returning sun grows stronger every day, so too will our community become strong again. Babies will be born, new people from other tribes will come amongst us and become our friends. They’ll share their skills and bring us gifts, and in return we shall take them to our hearts and share with them the abundance that we have. Once more we will honour our elders and listen to their wisdom. We’ll build up our Village again, make fine new dwellings for our young folk, and draw new water and new energy for our people. Our craftspeople will once more practise their skills with pride and joy and our farmers will be amazed at the fecundity of our herds and flocks, of our fields and crops. A golden age is coming to Stonewylde and we must embrace it with open arms!’

She paused and Magpie appeared, taking Clip’s ash staff from her and handing her the Asklepian wand. She released Shadow, who sat back on his haunches and stared solemnly up at her. Leveret’s fingers traced the carved snake on the rowan, feeling the magic of the ancient symbol of life and healing. Every person in the Great Barn was silent and spell-bound. She smiled, her sightless green gaze roaming the sea of faces and encompassing them all with a sweep of the wand.

‘At Beltane this year, when the Green Man once more raises the sap and fertilises the White Maiden in the never-ending cycle of rebirth and growth, something magical will come to pass. When this comes about, my beloved tribe, you will know that your Shaman the Hare Woman has spoken true, and will always be here to guide you. Yule blessings to all! Bright blessings and be whole and healthy!’