The Burning Time (11 page)

Then came the Moon Helmet of the High Priestess, its skullcap of burnished gold forming the base for two silver crescent points that arched upward. This was the Crown.

The other Tools appeared, more and more swiftly, as if in time to the quickening drum and tambour rhythms beat out by Will Payn.

A white cloth of fine linen, embroidered with a red and black Pentacle—the encircled five-pointed star—was laid directly on the altar stone.

The Bell, a small masterpiece of bossed silver with filigree of thistles and wild roses, was placed on the cloth.

The three-legged copper Brazier was then stood atop the stone. It would be lit with Elf-fire—flame struck from no metals—and sprinkled with incense, so that aromatic clouds wafted across the assembly.

The Athame, gleaming in its amber-studded scabbard, was placed upon the altar.

Then the last two, most powerful Tools of all, were brought forth.

With a loving touch, the High Priestess lifted her book shrine, its compartments of yew-wood nested inside silver that was nested inside niello nested inside bronze, all embracing her Grimoire, the volume of bound parchment leaves that comprised her notes, recipes, rituals, cures, meditations, and spells. This contained both personal and ritual
secret lore, knowledge passed on and added to, Witch to Witch, generation to generation, from time before understanding—since, it was said, the Blessed Days of the legendary southern isles of Krete or Thera, called by some Atlanthis. This was her Book of Shadows. She set it at the corner of the triangular stone, to one side of the cloth.

Last came a small three-footed bowl of silver, rimmed with red gold and inlaid with black enamel. This was placed carefully on the Pentacle cloth, facing north. Here was the Cup.

It was the consecrated Cup of the Witches, the vessel of a hundred names: Cauldron of Cerridwen to the Welsh; to the English, Gwyneviere’s Chalice; to the Christians, The Grail.

The High Priestess lifted a flagon and poured an arc of elderberry wine into the silver Cup.

She rang the Bell three times. The Coven held its collective breath as if in a single lung.

Then Alyce the Priestess grasped the Elf-fire taper offered her by Alyce the blacksmith. Touching the wick’s spark first to the Brazier, she raised it high—and then with one swift movement cast it at the pyre. There was nothing. Then there was a feather of smoke, then a flicker spreading to sporadic flames, then a sudden rush of heat, and the lit bonfire blossomed heavenward.

“
All mortal presences not Seekers! Leave now, or never enter here this night
,” the Priestess cried her warning.

No one departed.

Instead, one by one, each member of the assembly came forward and dipped her or his candle into the central blaze. The whole Circle sprang into clarity, a wreath of faces reflecting the light.

“
Spirits of Air, we welcome thee!
” Alyce’s voice chimed through the silence. The entire assembly turned to the east, and Petronilla de Meath, acting as Coven Maiden, walked to that point of the Circle, bearing the Brazier now billowing its plumes of incense, in honour of the element of air. At the eastern point she set it down.

“
Spirits of Fire, we welcome thee
!” cried the Priestess. And the company turned to face the southern point of their round, where Alyce herself lit a torch from the bonfire and thrust it into a crevice in the towering stone behind her, one of the thirteen that loomed protectively around the frail human inner ring.

“
Spirits of Water, we welcome thee
!” she called. And watched with pride how a well-practiced little Sara, after a glance of reassurance from Petronilla, toddled diligently to the western point of the Circle, carefully bearing a wooden beaker of water dipped from the River Nore no earlier than dawn of that same day. Annota Lange, standing near the western edge, helped Sara put the beaker down without spilling a drop, after which the small celebrant beamed and hopped up and down at her
own success—then suddenly was overcome with shyness and raced back to bury her face in her mother’s skirts.

“
Spirits of Earth, we welcome thee
!” Alyce’s voice rang out once more. Her son William stood forth at the north point, opposite from his mother, representing for this night young Lugh himself, the Shining One—Son, Brother, and Consort of the Goddess. He knelt, placing there a polished oval rock shaped like a stone egg, over which he poured a handful of salt, as symbol for the earth.

Slowly Alyce Kyteler drew the Athame from its scabbard. She held it before her, its point aimed downward toward the earth, as she stepped to the Circle’s outer perimeter and, muttering softly, began to glide around it, like a fuse burning behind the backs of those gathered facing the center, enclosing them. When she reappeared to her people at the southernmost point, she sheathed the Athame, and rang the Bell again three times.

“
The Circle is sealed
,” she proclaimed. “
We stand in Sacred Space
.”

The night itself seemed to pause.

In the forest that ringed the heath, owls halted their pursuit and hares checked their flight. The breeze fell still.…

How long did they stand there, hand in hand? What has time, or even timelessness, to do with such a moment? All the time or timelessness that mortals can imagine strains simply toward the moment when hands clasp against the night.
They stood there long enough to reassure the wood creatures who ventured to the heath’s edge, watching the scene with unalarmed curiosity, furred and feathered heads cocked to peer at this distant circle of other animals, all clad in sunset colours, their flower-garlanded heads nodding and murmuring to one another, sometimes together, sometimes individually; their upright animal bodies sometimes swaying as one, like a living garland of human flowers encircling the uncombed flames that shook themselves out, wind-tousled, at the center.

Now the people stood, arms linked, chanting to raise the Cone of Power—their words pealing in unison as if from the vaulted splendour of a single throat, resounding in waves through the charged air.

Danu, Macha, Badb, Morrigan, Cailleach, Brigid, Hertha, Artis, Astarte, Diann, Sybil, Tana, Hecate, Kore, Lillit, Andred, Rhiannon, Magog, Eryn, Scotia …
the Names of the Goddess breathed through the forest, a freshet of energy.…

Evoe! Evo Kore!… Night of the Waiting, between the first ripeness and the late harvest
.…
Days of the tall wheat, the graceful grain leaning into sweet summer winds
.…
As the Moon waxes in the Letter Tinne, as the star of Red Belligerence rises
.…
As this is the time of the Compact, the Ritual, the Door
.…

Clouds of incense turned incandescent by the moon’s rays rose in puffs and streaks, silver flowers of fragrance nodding on silver stems of air.

 … Chant the Word and let it free: as my Will, so mote it be! Do what thou wilt, an it harm none! For the Law of Three will return to you whatever you send against another thricefold
.…
Deflect all harm
.…
Protect. Protect. Protect
.…

The moon was now poised directly above the Circle, as if to listen to these observers of The Old Ways name Her waxing and waning. And so they did, murmuring The Charge of the Goddess:

Hear My words and know Me
.

You call me by a thousand Names, uttering yourselves
.

You call Me Eternal Maiden
.

You call Me Great Mother
.

You call Me Ancient Chaos
.

Moon, I answer you, my opening and closing eye, the regenerating shape, the Possibility. This to remind you that You are yourself The Virgin, born always now, new, capable of all invention and all creation
.

Lotus, I answer you, lily, corn-poppy, centripetal rose: the Choice. This to remind you that You are yourself The Mother, who unravels from Her own body, brain, and spirit each thread of the net that sustains You
.

Earthquake, I answer you, flood and volcano flow: the Warning. This to remind you that You are yourself The Old One who holds the Key, The Ancient who knows the secrets that you know not yet you know, The Crone to whom all things return
.

So shall I be the Goddess with No Name, The Nemesis, shrouded in Mystery, yet recognized in every heart
.

Whenever ye have need, then shall ye assemble. To thee will I teach things yet unknown
.

First, ye shall be free of all slaveries. Ye shall dance, sing, feast. Ye shall make music and praise and love. For Mine is the spirit’s ecstasy. But Mine also is the joy on earth
.

Love unto all things is My law. Keep pure your highest desires. Let naught stop you nor turn you aside
.

Know that I am the Universe that ever spins
.

My feet stamp on the brown earth, dancing, My breasts bring forth the milk of reasoning thought. My throat sings low the thunder. From Me springs all life, all death. I am rain-rush and mud-suck, sun-sear and drought-dust. I am the tidal ebb. I am the tidal wave
.

I am Form
.

I am Energy
.

I am the Abyss from which all things proceed, to which all things return
.

I am the rapture of being. I am the rapture of nonbeing
.

Call into thy soul. Hear and know Me. Offend Me not with sacrifice or bargaining. Venerate Me only with a heart in gladness, never in fear
.

For behold, all acts of love and pleasure are My Rituals. Therefore, let there be beauty and strength, power and compassion, honour and humility, mirth and reverence within you. And you who wouldst yearn and search for Me, know that thy seeking
and yearning will avail thee not, unless thou knowest the Mystery: If that which thou seekest thou findest not within thee, thou wilt never find it without thee
.

For behold. I have been with thee from the Beginning
.

And I await thee now
.

The stars seemed to freeze and focus, unblinking for a moment in their cosmic indifference, as if gazing across the empty vastness to this shred of matter, a watery world where on a small island a knot of mortal intelligences stood concentrating their powers.

Then a familiar voice rang out.

“Spirits of Air, we thank thee.”

This time the entire assembly echoed gratitude.

“Spirits of Fire, we thank thee.”
Again the people’s chorus.

“Spirits of Water, we thank thee. Spirits of Earth, we thank thee
.” And again the community.

“
Mother, make of each of us a safe and secret island, sacred unto Thee. Mother make and keep us whole. Mother, make and keep us free
.”

This from Alyce, as she lifted the Cup and sipped the first drops of ceremonial wine. Then she passed it to her left, saying as she did so, “
The blood of the Old Ones courses our veins. The Forms pass. The Circle remains
.”

Then Petronilla de Meath as Coven Maiden approached the altar, bearing a tray of crescent cakes. Alyce bowed to her in tribute, then broke the first cake, ate, and passed the tray to
her left. One by one, each member of the Circle drank and ate, murmuring, “
Blessed Be grape and grain
,” then passing along the Cup and the cakes with the words,
“Blessed Be thee and me.”

There was still wine to spare at the Cup’s return to the High Priestess, and there remained one last cake.

This she crumbled into the Cup, and these dregs were poured out onto the ground as libation to the earth.

Then the final words of the Ritual rang from Alyce Kyteler’s lips:

“Blessed Be, one and all. The Circle is opened
.…
Let the Feast begin!”

THE TOOLS DISAPPEARED
, nestled safely back into their casket—except for the Necklace and the Ring, which Alyce wore still.

And the feast began.

There were platters of anise-flavored pancakes, and cheese-stuffed boiled eggs, and fried baby artichokes sprinkled with rue. There were creamy leek-and-walnut pastries and crusty pies secreting honey-raisin filling spiced with galingale and nutmeg. There were various butters—some flavored with sage, some with basil, some crunchy with filbert nuts—to spread on various breads: wheat, rye, oat, and bran. Cauldrons and tureens offered choices of warm and cool soups to sample: cabbage and almond, turnip and parsley, sorrel broth with figs, barley-fruit consommé. But the certain favorite was Petronilla’s heated gourd and fresh pea concoction: a smooth, strained blend with onions, saffron, and cream; Will Payne announced that he would willingly drown in this brew. Cups, beakers, and bowls were filled and passed around, and into these were dunked lentil crisps, and delicately fried squash flowers.

Guests milled about and squatted or sat on the grass to eat, having piled their trenchers high with chunks of hard cheddar cheese, beet relish, dried apple rounds, and currant dumplings—amid dollops of freshly ground mustard and pinches of precious salt imported from across the sea in Lincolnshire. Beer and ale, mead and wine washed all this down, and there were ewers of pear cider and almond milk.

The confectionery was the stuff of dreams—and had been the subject of the children’s dreams for weeks. Gilli-flower puddings, tansycakes with prune jellies, stewed compotes of bogberries, hazelnuts, cherries—and there were doucettes: sweet tarts of wild plums marinated in cardamom and sugared vinegar. Each new dish was met with applause and sighs of pleasure: a cheese custard called an arboletty, and tricreams—the plain cream whipped and carefully folded in with the quince-and-honey-flavored creams to form red, gold, and white spirals, an enchantment for the eye as well as for the palate.

The children writhed in agonies of indecision. Which to choose? Strawberries and rosebuds sautéed to a crisp in chestnut flour? Or a confectionery made from honeyed hawthorne flowers called a spyneye after the hawthorne’s prickly spine? As drunk with excitement as their parents were tingly with wine, the children finally reached a point when they could not swallow one more bite. Which was just as well, since it was time for the feast to pause until song, dance, and digestion permitted
enjoyment of the menu’s crowning moment: the Spectacle—what cookery masters called the Subtletie, or the Illusion Food.