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| A Spiral Path - Chapter 1
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As dusk slipped into the river valley, and another long hot day drew to a close, the sky overhead daubed itself with colour. Surrendering joyfully to the softness of early evening, it became an artists canvas.
Delicate shades of salmon and gold, swept through with fiery oranges and reds.
Birds silhouetted against the breathtaking sunset, wheeled overhead calling, gathering their flock for the short journey home.
A huge shimmering sun slipped gracefully below the horizon, leaving in its wake streaks of vivid deep turquoise.
As darkness threw a velvet cloak over the drama, Larius eased himself down from a rocky outcrop high in the hills surrounding the valley of his birth.
One side of the stony path dropped away steeply into the green vale below, yet the rise on the other side of the path offered many handholds to steady his way.
Rarely did he need to reach for the sparkling mountain rocks, his feet having travelled this way countless times before and knew every dip, every rise.
The path gradually wound it’s way down the hillside, wandering around it’s girth in a measured spiral, rising and falling until eventually it arrived at a copse of blackthorn trees.
Placing his palms on the trunk of one of the older trees, he closed his eyes and silently thanked them for consenting to his passage that evening.
It grieved him that so many folk didn't respect the spirits of this sacred place. So many townsfolk rush to the hillside of a weekend, full of their own self importance, not stopping to consider where they are. He'd even seen tents pitched, their owners spending an uncomfortable night on the hill, out of ignorance or for a challenge.
It has been said that some have come to dark ends here, trampled under the hooves of Rhiannon’s powerful white steed, or swallowed whole as they were pulled screaming into the depths of the Underworld.
As Larius drew his hands away from the tree, he felt a warmth enfold him.
This was the way the spirits showed him their approval, and he was grateful for the response.
Returning thoughtfully to his home, nestled into the foot of the hillside, he climbed into the crook of the lowest branch of an ancient oak that stood by his doorway.
Delving into a leather pouch, he retrieved his clay pipe and tapped it gently on the trunk. Filling the bowl with herbs he’d gathered the previous day, he pressed his thumb firmly down, packing them into the tiny space. Carefully he loosened the top few leaves.
Deftly, and with the expertise of ages, he struck the flints and lit the mixture.
Curls of smoke rose high into the night air as he drew deeply on the satisfying mixture, scented rings drifting like so many signals, up and away through the ancient branches.
It was early autumn and although the sun was still hot in the day, the cool air came quickly after sun down.
A soft breeze played with the crystals and bells that adorned the cottage doorway and hung from the branches around him.
Brightly coloured ribbons fluttered merrily, reminding him of those who had taken their final ride…. Each one tied in their honour.
His lovely bride, now much older than her fine features suggested, twisted her thick long white hair into a spiral and tucked in the end, making a bun.
Deep beneath where Larius sat, she settled herself into their cosy bed and drew the feather quilt over her slim shoulders. A bedspread fashioned from the outgrown clothes of their four children lay folded at the foot of the bed ready for the chill of night
Her achy bones spoke of advancing age, and her increasing frailty over the past few days heralded a closing phase, an ending of life, yet a leap into another dimension of promise and possibility.
Larius knew that time was short for her and so had ceased his work on the land to spend their fading hours together.
As he sucked at the final embers in the little clay pipe, he cast his mind back to their more youthful days.
Their wedding day had been a spectacular festival for the whole town.
His beautiful bride had been born on the faery hillside eighteen years before and was renowned for her natural beauty and talents. Folk said that her birth was attended by the Faery King Himself and some even rumoured her otherworldly origins.
A young girl, out gathering herbs had been startled to find her as a child, lying alone in a hillside dell one misty spring morning.
Wrapped in a soft cloak of gossamer, woven with white feathers and moon daisies to keep her warm, she had opened her eyes and gazed straight into Nerianne’s soul. Completely spellbound by this beautiful soul, she took her safely into the warm folds of her cloak and hurried home.
It was said that the Goddess Rhiannon had stood guard in an act of compassion over the infant until Nerianne had approached, poor Rhiannon having been unable to save her own child, she’d dedicated her life to protecting others from harm.
Nerianne, bursting with a mixture of excitement, pride and love, arranged a meeting with the women elders to settle a name for the little girl.
That evening late, with the baby fast asleep in the depths of a woollen shawl she arrived at the door of the village meeting house.
Much later, after indulging in high-spirited discussions and, it has to be said, excesses of red wine…. they named her Maelona, as she was surely a princess sent from the Gods.
Nerianne, who could not conceive of her own child, was granted full custody.
As the years went by, ‘Mae’ had shown a depth of understanding that far surpassed her education.
She would complete her lessons in half the time that Nerianne had expected and, reluctant to push her into too much learning, she would encourage her to play in the afternoons in the fields and cool streams that emanated from deep below the hillside.
It was during one of these forays into the landscape that a seventeen year old Mae had met Larius.
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Posted by Merlyn on 2008-02-03 14:55:53 | Rating: | Views: 28
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