Beltane Faerie Story

In a land far from this land in a time far from this time there was a great gathering of all the people of the land to celebrate the Festival of Beltane.

The clans and families and tribes all met together.  In their midst were many great Bards, honeyed of voice and true of song; many powerful Ovates, skilled of hand and sure of vision; and many learn’d Druids, wise of thought and just of deed. It was they who led the revels and rites and rituals that would celebrate the Festival of Beltane, light the Fortunate Fires and open the Gateway of Summer.

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Each year the men and the women of the tribes gathered with each other to call forth the Spirits of the Land and the Season.  Games were played, contests fought and mysteries sought to determine who would be crowned the Queen of the May and the Lord of the Hunt.

Each year they separated. Menfolk with men and womenfolk with women, they set about their sacred tasks.  There was great merriment and passion and lust when the menfolk and the womenfolk were reunited to crown the fertile Queen of the May with a garland of white hawthorn blossoms and the potent horn’d Lord of the Hunt with a pair of stag antlers. When the champion of the menfolk was crowned, he embodied the Spirit of the Lord of the Hunt, just as the champion of the womenfolk embodied the Spirit of the Queen of the May.

Each year there was a group of folk who were apart from the rest. They had a desire for different games, a heart for different contests and a spirit turned towards different mysteries. The contests of the others did not bring them the same joys or the same thrills, so they could only take part for the sake of belonging, knowing they did not, or stand disconsolate to one side and wish for the same merriment and passion and lust the others felt.

Then one year everything changed.  The stars and planets were arrayed in new alignments; the ancestors dreamt new dreams in their barrows; and the Old Gods of the hollow hills sang new songs to the Land and the Season. The stars and the dreams and the songs lit a new spark in the souls of the druids and ovates and bards of those folk who had not the same passions as the others.

“We must seek out our Spirit of Beltane,” they said. A fellowship of those folk, with wise ones, seers and singers amongst them,  gathered upon a mist shrouded dawn and set off, following an old straight trackway across the land.

The journey was long and hard and the seekers travelled all day and rested by night, the bards singing songs of their ancestors around the hearthfire.  So they continued their quest and by noon on the third day they had travelled far and reached a place they knew to be the oldest of woods, within which lay an ancient grove of trees sacred to the Goddess of the Land. At the heart of that grove stood a hawthorn, with bright green leaves and countless pale white blossoms. The seekers approached the hawthorn.

“Are you the Spirit of Beltane we seek?” They asked.

The hawthorn answered “Not I, not I.” They knew they must travel on.

The journey was long and hard and the seekers travelled all day and rested by night, the seers interpreting signs and portents around the hearthfire.  So they continued their quest and by dusk on the third day they had travelled far and reached a place they knew to be the oldest of valleys, within which lay an ancient glen sacred to the Horned God. At the heart of that glen stood a stag, with great wide antlers and countless mossy tines. The seekers approached the stag.

“Are you the Spirit of Beltane we seek?” They asked.

The stag answered “Not I, not I.” They knew they must travel on.

The journey was long and hard and the seekers travelled all day and rested by night, the wise ones telling the tales of the old gods around the hearthfire.   So they continued their quest and by nightfall on the third day they had travelled far, the old straight trackway had thinned and vanished but they journeyed on into the night, turning their hearts towards the bright full moon and striking out along a shining new starlit path.

By midnight they had reached a place they knew to be unexplored by the clans and families and tribes. They saw it was a rolling land of meadows, within which they found a labyrinth, sacred to the Moon, spiralling through the grass. At the heart of the labyrinth stood a hare, with bright eyes and a pair of lustrous ears.

“Are you the Spirit of Beltane we seek?” They asked.

The hare answered, “I am, I am.”  They knew that they had found what they had quested for.

Moonlight Hares by Vikki Yeates http://vikkki.deviantart.com

In the heart of the Labyrinth of the Hare of Beltane, the fellowship made revelry that gladdened their hearts. The games were played, the contests fought and the mysteries sought to determine who would be crowned champion and embody the Spirit of Beltane.  They felt great joy when the champion was found and crowned with a pair of proud furr’d ears.

“Am I to have a consort?” asked the newly crowned Spirit of Beltane. “Only if you wish it to be so,” answered the Hare.

“I wish it to be so,” said the Spirit of Beltane. So, the Hare brought forth three fellow seekers.

The Spirit of Beltane approached the first.

“You cannot be my Consort,” said the Spirit of Beltane to the First. “There are no games we can play together.”

The Spirit of Beltane approached the second.

“I cannot be your Consort,” said the Second to the Spirit of Beltane. “There are no contests for us to fight together.”

The Spirit of Beltane approached the third and final potential Consort.

“You can be my Consort,” said the Spirit of Beltane to the Third. “But only if you wish it to be so.”

“I shall be your Consort,” said the Third. “There are mysteries we can seek out together.”

And so the Spirit of Beltane, the Consort and the rest of the weary but elated fellowship travelled back to the gathering, arriving back at the time between the setting of the moon and the rising of the sun.

There were great shouts of joy from the clans and families and tribes when the fellowship returned to the great gathering.  The seekers were reunited with those they had left behind and to them told their tales of the quest to bring forth their own Spirit of Beltane.  Although they had journeyed for three times three days and nights, they had returned in time for the Festival of Beltane.

Together, the Queen of the May, the Lord of the Hunt and the Spirit of Beltane led the Festival, blessed the Fortunate Fires and opened the Gateway of Summer. 

And so the Wheel of the Year turned, the stars danced merrily in the skies, the ancestors dreamed sweetly in their barrows and the Old Gods sang joyfully in the hollow hills.

This story was published in Touchstone, the Journal of The Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids Issue 208 and a recording of me storytelling features on Druidcast Episode 84.

I'm chanting as we speak

Imbolc

By no other agency than my own incompetence, I missed my Grove’s Imbolc ceremony today as I had written into my diary that it was tomorrow. I felt more than a little disappointed as I always enjoy our meetings and last year the ritual was beautiful, a small nemeton created in one of the city's remaining pockets of ancient woodland and a gentle yet powerful ceremony which crossed dusk leaving us praying in only the light of a ring of candles we had placed around our altar of natural and found objects. My soul needed the nourishment that my friends in the Grove provide and I have been too long out of their company this year.


I had a good long walk across the heath to the Observatory this morning, feeling and smelling the first fecund hints of spring and, mindful that I had felt strangely disjointed last year when I hadn’t made time for my seasonal observances, looking forward to feeling that connection. In the early years of my pagan path, Imbolc was a festival I didn’t really ‘get’: it seemed strange and dare I say it, only there to make up the numbers. As the years have passed and I have shared a deeper connection with certain aspects of the dark half of the year, Imbolc marks an important midway point in this season. It is full of contradictions, as is the Goddess with whom I now associate this time. It is the first glimmerings of light and growth and warmth, yet within that comfort is the sure knowledge of the brightest days of brittle cold and the darkest days of bleak lethargy that are still to come before Proserpina fully re-ascends.

In thinking of how I would mark the day instead, I turned to the pages of my journal and found my account of my solitary experiences of Imbolc two years ago:

With muffled drum I beat and dance a sacred path, a line consecrated in fire and smoke. Carried by the tempo of the drum around the circle, making nemeton, a temple in the dark, calling to rock and tree, frost and storm – the spirits that surround me and have showed their control of the land today.

I did not expect the city to be thrown into upheaval and disorder. The bright, white snow had started the day before and gathered momentum in the night, gaining strength and depth with every hour. I had woken before dawn, my head full of the day’s important tasks and the schedule I was to keep. So organised, so precise and, ultimately, so fragile. It became clear that I was going nowhere and resorted to leaving a series of messages for people who would probably be as stuck as I and fielding calls from those who most definitely were. Schools were closed, buses and trains cancelled, even airports grounded their traffic. It seems few are in any actual danger; most will wake today and know they aren’t going anywhere and shouldn’t even try. With any luck, for them at least, the day will pass huddled under a blanket with a mug of hot chocolate after sledging or snowballing.


In my sanctuary, I speak the name of my gods. Witness me, guide me, strengthen me. The last name thrums on my lips, over and over I sound it with the beating of the drum. Softer, louder, softer, louder until I know that I stand in Her presence. Today has been Her day – she has ridden the Siberian storms and swept deep white drifts over us all, snow and ice and wind, smothering our land and making mockery of the hubris of man. Hers is the deep cut of winter’s icy knife, She is the one who will use her staff to blast away the first shoots of spring.


Bringer of the White.

Bringer of death.

Veiled Lady.


I stand before her and she before me, swathed in white and wreathed in snow I know Her. But She knows me better.


“That which is weak must die.

You must be the man you know you can be.”


Her harsh words scythe through me. Again I think of Her blasting away fragile green shoots. Those were the shoots that were not strong enough, then better that the winter takes them. There will be other, stronger shoots to follow, for Springtime has never not come. Something falls away as I beat my drum again, dying back so I can leap forward. Whatever is now gone was not strong enough to survive. I remember that in the midst of the white this morning I saw a space had been cleared and a strong green shoot was growing through the snow.


Looking back, that year Imbolc was surely what it should have been: a day of snow and chaos; rules upturned and giddy excitement – a festival! I had a journey through the harsh and unforgiving white but I came out stronger the other side. For alongside the heady joys of that unexpected snow-day, there had been disappointments and, for me, the light and bitter taste of a betrayal revealed.

mists of time

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I found an article I wrote in 2002 when I was a member of Caer Clud, a druidry group full of mirth and companionship that inspired me and was a cruicible for many things. But everything has its season and Caer Clud has now, in the words of one of the co-founders,"faded into the mists".

It’s much more fun to do it outside.

I’m talking, of course, about ritual. Ritual can be performed almost anywhere, at any time and for many different reasons. However, many Druids, myself included, prefer to work ritual out of doors whenever possible. I am, perhaps, inspired by romantic and mysterious images of cloaked figures meeting in secluded wooded groves to gather mistletoe from oak with golden sickles. Or by magnificent white robed Druids with staffs and horns assembling at Stonehenge to welcome the rising sun at Midsummer? Or maybe I just enjoy going out and getting myself muddy from time to time.

Being outside has become an integral part of how I express my spirituality. Experiencing first hand the turning of the wheel of the year and the ebb and flow of nature’s tides is, for me, the most immediate and most visceral route to connecting with the spirits of the land and the seasons. Returning to the same space as the season changes, I see the cycle played out before me. Trees are clad in bright leaves, which fade, fall and bud again. The ground is sodden, or hard and lacy with frost, or a riot of spring bulbs. I gain an emotional sense of what the festival means, not just in the stories it evokes, but in the experience of being out of doors during that season. Of raising my voice to be heard above the wind, of the warmth of mulled wine on a cold night and, on one occasion, of hoping that torrential rain would stop long enough to actually perform a midsummer ritual. Of course, ritual is not only for the seasonal festivals, but for any time you want or need it. Increasingly, because I can, because I want to has become a sufficient reason for me to perform an outdoor ritual.

My first outdoor, solitary ritual was just before dawn on the morning of the first of May. I had been up all night, cavorting around in the firelight at the Beltane Fire Festival atop Calton Hill in Edinburgh. I was cold and tired, I smelt of bonfire, my bum was damp and my clothes were stained with mud and grass and wax. And I felt bloody fantastic.

My tools were simple, a candle in a jar and some incense burning on a charcoal block in a fellow reveller’s discarded beer can. My circle, a quiet spot beneath a little tree just far enough away from the main party not to be disturbed. I sang, chanted awens and offered a goodly portion of my cider, which I had already drunk more than a little of, back to the earth. There were thanks to be given and healing energies to be offered for an ailing friend and, beneath it all, the knowledge of what was stirring in the land and within myself and the scantest of glimpses of the year ahead. It was at the edge of my perception, like the merriment and drumming all around me and just as contagious. No immense insights, instead a gentle perception of the movement of all things, progressing within and without my influence. A sense of place, not just a connection to where I was but to where I have been and will be.

The sky was paling, fading from deep indigo to grey, as I finished my impromptu ritual. Already there was a crowd regrouping on the hillside to welcome the rising sun. The horizon grew bloody as I trudged over to join them, handing the last of my cider into the crowd. As the sun crept higher the drumming redoubled. So too did the singing and chanting and stamping and dancing and sheer primitive, spirit born joy of seeing the sun rising again above the trees. From darkness into light. On any given night most sensible people slumber through this transition, when each of us pass through the cauldron of night and are reborn with the waking of the day. Just occasionally, some of us dance through that womb with our eyes wide open. There is freedom to be had in the darkness, contemplation and reinvention of ourselves without the harsh glare of the rational sun. There we can play and ponder the possibilities of self, for there is time yet before the darkness leaves us. At that Beltane festival there were fires blazing all night, an anchor to the daylight world I had left behind and a signpost towards my destination. And of course a powerful symbol: the fire on top of a hill clearly shouting, “Come to us! We are here! This is where the celebration is. When you get here, should you choose to, you can stay warm all night as you dance in the fire’s halo. You have a whole night to do with what you will.” Dawn then comes gradually, the fires burn down to embers, the night subtly fades and we follow it easily: not the oh so usual, bolt upright, alarm ringing, eyes snapping open and blinking against unwelcome light awakening. The darkest hour may be just before the dawn, but it makes the clarity of that coming light so much sweeter.

Dawn in a city is always slightly surreal, this one was even more so as I descended from the hillside and made my way to the railway station. A city needs people, without them it seems so lifeless, so in the dawn hours the city is quiet and almost ghostly until the occasional passing bus or early riser breaks the illusion of abandonment and desertion. This too is a transition; the empty streets seem unfamiliar and new, pregnant and bright with all the opportunities of a new day. Without the disguise of its citizens, I discover the city with fresh eyes. Stalwart old townhouses; bars and shops sulking behind shutters and grills; brash and confidant office blocks. I am told that cities are full of angular and sharp spirits, youthful and often turbulent, some newly realised and some centuries old and all mere children compared to the land spirits that have dwelt there since before our memory. The spirits of the land are, for me, harder to hear when masked by bustling crowds, traffic and noise. It is only when I see the city in an unusual way, like on a still and clear dawn where I could easily believe that all the people had vanished overnight, that I can remember to look and listen beyond what I am used to. Beneath the concrete, steel and pavement and indeed within it we will find not only the whisper of what has always been there, a land worked and lived by our ancestors, but also the voice of the now.

Stepping off the hill and onto the pavement I felt a subtle shift. I was leaving behind my night of partying where, for just a few hours, I had felt as if I was on an older, wilder hillside quite separate from the urban sprawl laid out before me. Now I returned to my other world, filled with trains and computers and meetings and books and customers and hospitals.

I have taken part in many rituals since then, both alone and as part of Caer Clud. To be honest, my favourites have been those that have been outside. In the middle of a wood with sunlight streaming through trees that stretch upwards forever; on a freezing hillside at midwinter to the light of a single lantern; on a beach at dawn or simply sitting for a few moments beneath a tree or staring into the river. They all remind me of my connection to the land and its seasons, of being a part of nature rather than living apart from it.

So should you too feel the call of those wild spaces, I urge you to answer and seek them out. Take what you think you will need, make sure that you will be safe wherever you roam, then set off. Wildwoods, moorland, beaches or hillsides. Parks, gardens or riverbanks. Discover those special places between the land and the sky and let the spirits of those places welcome you.