A Story For Imbolc

[estatigua (Tiggy)]

A Story For Imbolc
By Jerry Bird

The pub was quiet now. Jez savoured the last sip of his third pint of Old Ale and replaced his battered pewter tankard on the varnished oak bar-top.
'Better be off I s'pose'
The landlord, who was polishing glasses looked up and nodded in the old man's direction.
'Night Jez, go safely now' Jez pulled on his worn barbour, collected his hat and stick from the fireside and swung open the heavy door to the snug.
'Cheerio Martin'. The latch clattered behind him. It was a cold still February evening. Lit by the fullness of the moon Jez watched his breath float away from him. He pulled his scarf more tightly around his neck, adjusted the angle of his hat and crossed the road from the ivy-clad Squirrel Inn. Pausing at the start of the footpath up to the Downs he looked back at the village which had been his home for over fifty years.
He sighed as he spotted the dimly lit windows of 'Briars', the plain stone cottage which had been his home until he'd retired from farm work six years ago. He silently cursed Wingrove Estates, who had forced him out of his tied house. Such a shame Squire Abbotson sold out to them; he would never have seen old Jez out of his home. It wouldn't have been so bad had they re-let it but no, it was sold off to some young computer engineer with a flash car and a job in London. He was only there now and again. Only ever came into the Squirrel once and then moaned like Hell when Martin refused to serve him some fancy bottled lager without pouring it into a glass first. Good old Martin still had standards. Bless him. Best beer this side of Brighton.
Jez hoisted his tall wiry frame over the stile and started up the steep track, his boots crunching on the frozen chalky-white mud. It was a three mile walk to his tiny flat on the edge of Seabourne, with the ridge of Huggets Down to cross, over seven hundred feet above sea level. He'd shown those silly buggers at the Squirrel. 'Won't see much of you now you're in town' they'd said when he'd finally got the keys to his Council flat. Six miles a day was nothing to a man who had never driven a car in his life. Only ever had cause to drive a tractor, as his father years before him had only ever driven oxen. Six miles a day kept him fit. That and the odd bits of hedging and fencing work that came his way. Kept him out in the fresh air. Kept him in beer money too. Good old Jez, still a respected man of the village, even though he couldn't afford to live there now. Six miles a day never did anyone any harm. Bloody cold tonight though.
He stopped for a few moments, he had started up the slope at quite a pace, and his lungs were starting to tighten. He knew he would have to slow down and take deeper breaths. In his pocket his hand closed around the small blue plastic cylinder which was now, at Doctor Brightling's insistence, a constant companion on his walks. He loosened his scarf as he felt his breathing ease and smiled to himself. Doctors fuss so. Fresh air and six miles a day was good for anyone.
To the west was a parallel chalky path which took a more circumspect approach to the ridge which now loomed above him. He could see a few distant lights bobbing along the ancient trackway, a procession of burning torches. He could just hear a regular drum beat and the sound of mostly female voices singing softly. Jez quite liked the Pagans. Martin called them the weird brigade but he was happy for them to meet in the saloon bar before they went off to do whatever it was they did up at the old camp at Hugget's Down. They usually spent well. One of them in particular Jez was always glad to see, his eye for a pretty lady being entirely undiminished by his advancing years. Raven, she called herself now but he still remembered her as Jenny, the daughter of Mrs Jesty, postmistress over at Harcombe. The reason he had tarried rather longer than usual at the bar was that he had clear view through to the saloon where she was supping her usual pint of bitter, and chatting earnestly to a young lad whom he recognised as Andrew Dunn, the garage mechanic from over Westway. Before she had appeared in the Squirrel for the first time Martin had baulked at the idea of serving a pint to a lady, but there was something in her eyes that told him he was on to a non-starter arguing with this one. She was certainly radiant tonight, her long black hair spilling down the back of her dark red, fur lined robe, a large silver pentagram nestling in her ample cleavage, which seemed if anything rather more ample than when he had last seen her, when her crowd had gathered before their Yule celebration last year. He wondered if she might be expecting. Jez thought of his own dear Margaret who had lain in the village churchyard these last twenty years. She had never looked more lovely than when pregnant. Such a shame she could never carry to full term. Since she died it had seemed his destiny to be alone. Even in a crowded bar he was still alone, lost in his thoughts. 'There's good old Jez' they'd say 'heart of gold but a man of few words, let him be', and Jez liked it that way.
He looked at his watch, and the glass reflected a perfect image of the full moon back into his eyes. Jez shivered slightly. Nine o'clock. He should just catch the chippie on Longmans Road before they shut. That would do for him, hated that electric cooker. Better get on though.
The path, rutted and flinty, led upward and eastward through a deep gully and Jez lost sight of the revellers on their way to celebrate Imbolc at the old camp. Shaded from the moon now he knew every step of the way in the darkness. He'd trod this path for half a century. The land to the west had been favourite grazing land when he'd had his sheep. Two years ago some idiot at Wingroves had decided it was a good spot for growing rape, of all things, and nearly forty acres were ploughed up before anybody realised what was happening. That's when they'd found the bones. Funny how the bones of the hill people who lived here so long ago could do more to stop the money grabbing agribusiness merchants than the local people who lived here now. Jez thought again of Raven and her friends who had protested so hard and so vainly until the ploughs uncovered the bronze age burials and the archaeologists came in. He would never forget the image of her standing astride a human skull, arms upraised, eyes blazing, words flying spark-like from her lips, surrounded by her motley retinue of witches, druids, eco-activists and locals, for once united in opposition to the assault on their precious Downland. She had been taken a bit more seriously in the village after that, especially after Wingroves were made to return the fields to grassland. He had even seen Squire Abbotson doff his cap to her, though Reverend Golightly had by all accounts preached a very strongly worded sermon the following Sunday warning of the 'dangers of the Occult', whatever that was supposed to mean.
Emerging from the gully Jez had a clear view across the combe to the old camp on the ridge. He could see figures clearly silhouetted against the moonlit sky, their torches forming a circle of fire on the ancient ramparts. Others appeared to have joined them from the ridgeway further to the west. Blimey, there must be nearly forty of them he thought, no wonder Golightly's got the willies, he's probably jealous. He remembered the dayglo yellow posters on the village noticeboard advertising the Candlemas evening service and doubted the Reverend could have mustered more than a dozen this cold February night with Morse on the telly.
'Good luck to yer' He shouted out loud, and then bent double, leaning heavily on his stick and coughing violently, his lungs tighter than before and now painful. d**n! Silly old bugger! He staggered a few yards to the point where the village path met the ridgeway. Here he knew there was a marker stone which would be a handy seat to rest for a minute or two. Wheezing loudly he sat on the stone and inhaled deeply on the blue cylinder. The air was sharp and cold, but the salty chemical taste at the back of his throat told him that 'Brightling's breather', as he called it was doing its job. He rested until he was able to breathe deeply and evenly again. He stood and stared back down the steep pathway to the village nestling in the cleft of the Downs, the wooden church spire just catching the moonlight, the warm glow emanating from the snug window at the ivy-covered Squirrel making him long for the comfort and convenience of Briars, just yards from the inn. Still, fresh air and six miles a day never harmed anyone. Better go and see Doc Brightling again soon though, if this keeps up.
It was a glorious night despite the cold, and the stars seemed closer to the earth than he had ever seen them before. In the west the drum beat was just audible again and Jez turned to watch the figures on the skyline. He felt a sudden urge to rush and join them, whatever they were up to (and he had heard some strange tales!). They seemed so content and self assured, these Pagans, like they really enjoyed, well, just being themselves in each others company. A big family. For a moment he wanted a part of that. Some of them might dress a bit oddly but they were always polite and friendly in the Squirrel. Some had good jobs too, he'd heard. There were even a couple of magistrates from Seabourne some said. The figures seemed now to be moving in a slow circular dance, arms held aloft. The sound of chanting reached his ears, slow and hypnotic. Jez took a couple of steps along the ridgeway towards the ramparts then stopped. Nah, you'll scare them silly you daft old bugger. Go and have your chips. He laughed out loud at himself and turned back towards the east, swinging his stick and enjoying the crunchiness of the frozen grass beneath his feet.
All was silent now in the circle. Raven stood in the centre, eyes closed, lips pursed with concentration. A perfect night, a full moon at Imbolc, the first she could remember. She held out her hands, palms upwards, feeling the energy surge around her. Her fingertips tingled. Each breath she took was deeper and longer than the last. Her head began to feel light and she felt as if she was floating just above the frozen ground. She turned to face north, where a makeshift altar was bedecked with early spring flowers and candles surrounding a large silver chalice. A thurible belched clouds of bitter-sweet smoke into the still night air. She raised both arms above her head. A couple of girls in the circle shuffled with anticipation. Raven shot a sharp glance in their direction and they froze, shame-facedly.
'Queen and Lady, Zaruna of the Night, Secret Goddess. Thy servants call upon thee, for this is the time of the festival. Come to us now and honour our circle with your presence.'
Raven's voice was clear and beautiful in the still air, the bright moonlight threw her long dark shadow across the altar. There was a slight murmur of wind and the smoke from the thurible eddied around the altar in spirals. She had never felt so close to the Goddess, so powerful, so in control. The power surged within her and she sensed strange colourful lights dancing in the air around her fingertips, like static electricity. The circle was absolutely still. Not one person moved a single hair.
Jez was feeling better, the swing in his step carrying him swiftly and easily over the hummocky ground. Soon he would descend the steep path towards Seabourne. The lights of the town twinkled between the gnarled windblown beech trees, the street lighting lending a yellow tinge to the sky in the east, in stark contrast to the velvety blackness of the star studded sky overhead, and the deep moonlit blue in the west, towards the village. Up ahead a clear disc of silver stood out on the ground - Harpers Pond, his marker for turning left to descend the slope into the town. As he drew closer he thought he could hear the plaintive sound of a sheep in distress. Sure enough near the frozen dewpond a large pregnant ewe had become entangled in some fencing wire, carelessly abandoned by the estate workers. The sheep had dragged the steel coil until it had become wrapped around some bushes close to the edge of the icy disc. Jez approached slowly, not wishing to frighten the creature further. The animal fell silent as he began to sing a fragment of an old lullaby which somehow his memory had retained since childhood.
'Hush now my baby don't you cry, The Sun and the Moon's tumbled down from he sky.'
He placed his stick on the ground and knelt beside the ewe, feeling around its legs, trying to undo the tangle of wire. '
'There's a good girl, pretty girl, there's my darlin, don't ee fret'
Jez kept up this mantra as he worked deftly with his fingers, working the wire away from the ewe's leg. And then he coughed.
' d**n!'
The ewe bucked and kicked out its rear legs, which were almost free. Jez staggered backwards, his legs giving way beneath him as he tumbled down the sloping concrete. There was a dull crack as he landed on his back on the ice. He clutched his chest, gasping for air, his breathing heavy, rapid and wheezing. He felt his strength draining away, the fluid in his lungs rapidly taking all available space for the fresh air he craved. He struggled furiously to retrieve 'Brightling's breather' from his jacket pocket, only to see it skitter away across the surface of the frozen pond. He raised himself up on his elbows. There was a creaking sound as the ice began to move beneath him. Panicking, he thrashed out his arms in an attempt to claw his way back to the concrete slope. There was another sharp crack and he realised the ice had broken. He grasped the edge of the slab of ice and felt it slice into his left palm. d**n! Wincing more from the icy water than from the pain in his hand he made one last attempt to haul himself away from the hole in the ice. The slab seemed to move of its own accord, sagging gently then suddenly tilting at a sharp angle. Jez felt the icy cold and tasted the foul water as he slid gently and silently beneath the surface, all his strength now gone, slipping into insensibility. d**n! He thought of the group up at the camp, realising they could not help him. He thought of Raven as the water slowly engulfed him in an icy blackness. He no longer struggled. He realised he had stopped breathing and the thump, thump, thump of his heartbeat was slowing down. Suddenly he had a vision of a pale yellow moon rising above a vast emptiness of wetland. He realised it was the levels near the coast where he was born. Thousands upon thousands of birds were rising from the marshes silhouetted against the sky, each one a thought, a word, a deed remembered from his past...
Raven trembled.
'Enter, Maiden, come now to our circle and bless us thy servants. Come to us, Come to us, Come to us....'
She felt the power as never before. The lights around her fingers danced and swayed, she could hear a rushing sound in her head like the beating of thousands of tiny wings and the murmur of wind had become a stiff swirling current of air that engulfed her. She danced ecstatically around the circle, head thrown back, arms flailing, the others drawing back as she did so. The rushing sound grew louder and louder until clutching her hands to her ears, she collapsed onto her knees before the altar. The sound ceased.
Disorientated, she abandoned the plan to perform the Earth healing spell. Events had overtaken her, though she knew not exactly what had occurred. After a time she motioned to Andrew, her priest for the rite to help her do the honours with the cakes and wine.
'As the chalice is to the female, so the athame is to the male. Together they bring blessedness. So mote it be.'
As he lowered the knife into the chalice a shooting star pierced the velvety sky, streaking across the face of the moon towards the village in the valley below. Raven felt for the first time, the kick of her unborn child.
Not half a mile away the pregnant ewe returned to the edge of the dewpond and sniffed at the curious blue cylinder lying on the concrete slope. Deciding it not to be edible she walked slowly away into the darkness.
Raven, returning that night down the old trackway to the village could not stop tears from gently rolling down her cheeks, though she did not understand why she wept.
END