When Its Not Set In Stone (1) “Yet they were made of earth and fire as we, the self-same forces set us in our mould: To life we woke from all that makes the past” – Thorger Larsen Prologue A strobic pillar of violet and azure energy descends from the heavens, flames emptying from its base. Just as abruptly as it arrives, the lightning retreats to its rightful place. By the power of fire, the land is scorched. Wind contorts the flames, contracting them until they are extinguished. By the power of wind, the wound is healed. Raindrops follow, soothing the blistered grass. By the power of water, the memory is washed away. The land melts into a muddy gruel forming thick porridgy lumps in places and hollows in others. By the power of earth, the land is rebuilt. Fire, Air, Water, Earth – divine entities of land’s formation. The coarse crystals are slowly eroded by determined floods, water seeping into undiscovered cavities, fracturing rocks that can no longer bear the pressure, depositing granules steadily on the riverbed. Grass blades protrude form the earth, challenging it to a duel - unsuspecting of the muzzle of the horse that seeks to end its brief but beneficial life. The lone raven drops a willow seed from a faraway land, in time it lodges roots by the riverbed, establishing its place in history. And all the time, the wind blows through the barren land, awaiting its invasion. “Man is born to seek power, yet his actual condition makes him a slave to the power of others.” - Hans J. Morgenthau 2000 BC A careful incision had been carved into the rock face and was held open by boulders on either side, as if trying to prevent the wound from closing. The mound rose from the earth’s surface, threatening to reveal its mysteries. The secrets it contained were the skeletons of the past, bleached by age but displayed in all the dignity that ancestors deserve. Grymus took the quick, long strides of a man above his rank as he descended to the base of the mound. Darkness enveloped him, wrapping its tentacles around his trunk, dragging him further into the tunnel. Shivering in the flimsy tunic, he noticed that Midwinter seemed colder every visit. In his unaccustomed blindness, he clung to the wall, feeling fingerprint like grooves on its surface – a labyrinth with no entrance or escape. He reached towards his belt, bypassing the axe in favour of a small clay vial. Methodically, oil was spread inside the grooves, and sealed with delicate moss. Like an impatient child, he struck the flint stones against each other with no reward. With a fluid movement, a spark was produced, the moss singing and the flames slowly travelling along the grooves – the scent of burning reminding him of the blacksmith’s forge. The wall ablaze, the surroundings could now be surveyed. He stepped hesitantly into the circular room, with carved stone beds around its circumference. On each lay the frames of great warriors, in various stages of their return to the earth. Pushing open the quartz slit above the door, he waited in the centre of the mound. & “The light cut through the crystal, bounced between its many sides and left to kindle yet another. The cave sparkled with jewels - sapphires, rubies and emeralds, but the dragon was not satisfied. There was a gap on the wall; the only jewel that could fill its place was the stone at the top of Preseli Mountain.” “So did he fly to the top of the mountain and take it?” asked the girl, eyes gleaming like the cave’s jewels. “If you wait, I’ll tell you the story.” & The first rays of the midwinter solstice began to filter through the slit, twig thin at first but widening rapidly until they filled the mound, then proceeded to exit through the opening in the ceiling. Using the stone beds as stepping-stones he climbed through, the cold air startling his warm skin. He followed the light ray across the field as it extended through to the Bluestones of the Old Henge and on to the lake, disappearing into the branches of the old willow tree. That would be the site where he would build a great monument to himself and show the people of this land the true power he possessed. He envisioned a circle of Sarsen stones, and inside it a horseshoe – to capture the power of the earth’s force and charge the stones with strength. & “The dragon exposed his immense wings, webbed skin pulled tightly over intricate patterns of bone. He waited for the breeze to lift him as he began to soar to the top of the mountain.” & As he stood in the doorway, she raised her eyes up to him, the furtive glance broken almost as soon as it had begun. Her eyebrows formed crescent moons, dyed black to accentuate the paleness of her skin, cheekbones tinted red with alder berries. Adolwyn nodded, for others in what seemed humility, for him the acknowledgement of his gaze. Turning and stepping towards the women gathered in the hut, each limb was placed strategically – yet the graceful movement was unable to obscure the tremble in her hands. He watched as the last trails of her skirt disappeared and heavy boots replaced the view. As his eyes scanned upward, he saw that a woollen robe almost reached the boots, while from the belt, a hammer, chisel and file hung suspended. Like all blacksmiths, he was to be respected, blessed by the gods with his skills. He should have waited until Blaenor had addressed him but could not contain himself. “I have something very important to discuss with you Blaenor,” offered Grymus, almost disguised by his companion’s looming figure. They seated themselves beside the fire, wooden mugs clutched firmly in their hands. The brew seemingly invigorating him, Grymus felt prepared. “You are aware of my views towards our tribe. We are in a time of great instability – isolated from the world we can be obliterated by invaders. Trade is the way to gain allies – we must fortify our land while gaining alliances elsewhere. I propose we join with our neighbouring tribes to form an indestructible force, and our tribe will prosper. For this we must build a monument…that is, a meeting place, which will serve as a neutral crossroads for trade. The Old Henge is ideal for this task.” “To trade! To prosperity!” bellowed Blaenor, raising the mug to his lips, forming froth like the crust of molten metal on his moustache. All was falling into place. Blaenor was leaving on his annual journey abroad, offering his services to other tribes. He would be placed in charge during the absence and allowed to muster enough force to build the crossroads. But this would not be a crossroads like any other – for generations to come people would exalt his name and honour him for his masterpiece. He closed his eyes, her face forming depth in the hollow between the back of his skull and eyelids. The way she tilted her head, stretching the muscles in her supple neck…the way the flesh of her arms extended as she held them out, to fly on the breeze – he wished she would swathe them snake-like around him…hypnotising him with Medusa’s power. He shook his head; hoping that distorting the image would break the trance and allow him to focus on his task. How was he to move the stones from Avebury, up Redhorn Hill and finally to the Old Henge itself? The design he envisioned would impress the most discerning builder, let alone the lowly farmers he refused to identify himself with. It would certainly impress Adolwyn. & The old man pulled the leather strap taut and hoped it would adequately fulfil its task. On Grymus’s orders, five hundred soldiers pulled the stone onto rollers and proceeded to drag it up the hill. The stone was equal in weight to two juvenile whales and threatened to crush its disturbers like the one in the myths of their childhoods. One hundred men laid out rollers before the stone creature while the rest dragged it across - the sun had begun to set by the time they reached the hilltop. Sweat stung his cloudy eyes, meandering through the creases in his skin until he could stand it no longer. Brushing it away swiftly, he noticed the blistering pink flesh of his palms where the strap had rubbed persistently, and red scars from where the chisel had often slipped. The momentary lapse created a series of collisions behind him, murmuring culminating with Grymus‘s characteristic grunt. “You have served your time but now I have no need of you, the strength has drained from your once supple limbs.” With an efficient swing of the arm, the old man was knocked into the pit. Work continued as normal, the lever was lowered by the team, pushing the stone further into the pit, every inch extracting sweat and grumbles from the crowd. & “ His claws rested on the summit and began digging into the earth. He knew that somewhere below the surface lay the stone that would complete his cave, and then all would know how strong and powerful he was.” “Couldn’t he breathe fire on it? Isn’t that what dragons do?” “Alright, if you want. He could feel his stomach beginning to heat up, the tingling travelling into his throat. He opened his jaws, releasing a ball of flame onto the ground. It was then that he could see his treasure” “What did it look like? Was it an emerald, ruby or sapphire?” “No, the dragon had enough of those. This stone was special. It was opaque unlike the others and smoothed by the elements, the last stone to complete the mountain. By taking it, and leaving nothing for the earth in return he was breaking a fundamental law of nature.” & Ropes slung over their shoulders, the men staggered forward, dragging the stone centimetres at a time across the rollers. Over and over again, across level plains, into abrupt valleys and up often-steep hills, the mammoths trampled their way across the landscape. At night, they lay on a grassy slope, tossing incessantly as if wishing they could carve a comfortable hollow into the hill. Where once the group covered the hill, empty patches could be seen, but even now, the communal fire could not keep them all warm. Their muscles ached from pitiless exertion; the few months that Grymus had promised had flowed into years. The workers shivered as the wind teased their clothes and ruffled their hair. A cacophony of rumbles could be heard coming from their stomachs, as if one man’s desire for juicy mutton triggered the one beside him, resulting in a moaning offbeat melody. It was not enough that they were to erect the Sarsen stones, Grymus was unsatisfied with the Bluestone’s positions, and they were to be rearranged also. The journey was not as arduous as their predecessor’s, who floated the stones over sea from the Preseli Mountains 240 miles away 150 years earlier, but Avebury was still a lengthy distance away and the men looked forward to the day their labour would end. It was now time to raise the lintels onto the stones, the final stage in the Henge’s weary construction. The block rested on wooden supports, one side propped onto the next level of the scaffold while men on the ground wrenched the lever to make it lie horizontally. The stone was now four hand spans above the ground with at least a hundred remaining. “Don’t see why anyone needs ‘ese huge lumpsa rock at a trading spot. Could bring my cattle ‘ere with no stones and people would know to buy’ em.” “Shut that rambling mouth of yours, are you trying to get whipped or somethin?” Grymus turned towards the workers, his eyes piercing through them like spears. “Its like a sixth sense I say, like he knows what we’re thinkin.” “Just pull that stick down and hope the whole thing doesn’t fall and crush you like an axe on a pig’s head on slaughter day.” & “So what happened to him then?” “Nothing… then. He flew back down to the bottom of the mountain, leaving a burnt hole in its peak. He sat for hours in the cave, rolling the stone between his claws and admiring it, telling himself how famous he would be when his cave was completed, how people would come from all over the world to praise him.” “But he took from the earth, giving nothing in return…shouldn’t he be punished?” “We’ll get there. The cave was so bright from all the jewels; it was filled with flickering light. The dragon breathed onto the cave wall, and quickly stuck the stone in place.” & Grymus had grown a beard and his workman’s tunic was replaced with a red woollen robe, carefully embroidered around the edges by Adolwyn and adorned with shining bronze buttons. He toyed with one, circling it with his thumb as if unsatisfied with its smoothness. It did not seem like only five Midwinters ago he had stood on the burial mound and sworn to prove his greatness. He inspired respect now, perhaps through fear, but that did not detract from his authority. When Blaenor returned he would see how he had matured, and Adolwyn would be his. Scanning the circle, he could see the fruit of his labour. The massive stones towered over him, casting a shadow across his face. The final lintel was to be put into place and then his masterpiece would be complete. He could hear the scrape of boots behind him, and pivoting clumsily saw the figure of Blaenor. Each footstep was deliberate and clear. He waited, expecting a surge of congratulations. As he got closer, he saw that Blaenor was not smiling. The look of awe he had pictured from a distance was a look of horror. “I entrusted you to build a trading crossroads, and to mark it with a few stones. You have squandered building material, forced my farmers to neglect their fields and abused your power!” “ I…I just wanted to build something to be proud of.” “You mean something that would make people proud of you. You wanted a monument for yourself – to commemorate what? An over-glorified farmer who has never achieved anything and whom I foolishly trusted with a simple task.” “I wanted to show you that I am better than those around me, man should not be judged by birth but by his achievements. Then I could ask for Adolwyn's hand….” “ Adolwyn’s hand? Do you not know that she is promised to Wulfan, chief warrior of the Tuath tribe? Those illusions of grandeur will disappear when you spend the next five years of your life cleaning my stables.” The painful words were exacerbated by his actions, tearing the buttons from his robe one by one and stubbing them into the ground. Blaenor was not a man to waste an opportunity. Grymus might have built the monument, but there was no need for that to stand in his way. “Men, raise that lintel onto those stones and then I want you to go back home to your farms, the harvest is long overdue. I want messengers to be sent to the surrounding tribes proclaiming the erection of Blaenor’s crossroads and my symbol engraved into the entrance stone. Soon everyone will see the glory and power that come from my tribe. As for you Grymus, I suggest you start those stables before it gets dark.” The lintel slid across, its hollows perfectly aligned with tenons in the uprights. Blaenor smiled. He had appointed Grymus knowing there would be no competition for his role when he returned. Even though some farms lay waste, in time they would again blossom and this monument was certainly worth the minor inconveniences. Grymus crouched by the willow, staring into the lake. Where once he saw a young man full of hope he saw a raven, beady black eyes stamped into a raw, expressionless face. In the distance, he could hear the lintel being forced into place. A tear dropped into the lake, mingling with the water until it was indistinguishable from millions of other drops. & “The cave began to sparkle, light reflecting and refracting through the polished stones. The light beam became brighter and brighter until the cave emanated a glow. It became so intense that the dragon began to squint, stealing a final glance at his concluding stone. It was then that the light pierced his eye, dazzling him. When he recovered, the cave was filled with darkness. He thought the sun had set so he exhaled a torrent of fire – and saw nothing. It was some time before the dragon realised he would never be able to see his glorious cave again – he could not enjoy his masterpiece. He lay quietly at the back of the cave knowing no one would ever know how strong and powerful he was. Perhaps, it was better that way. The retrieving of these forgotten things from oblivion in some sort resembles the art of a conjuror” - John Aubrey 1665 46 BC Cyfan rose from the mattress, leaving a patchwork of impressions in the straw where he had tossed restlessly throughout the night. The years had wearied his once powerful frame, and the cloth hung loosely about his bowed shoulders. There had been warnings of the Roman advance the previous evening and he knew that this could only bring misfortune to his people. Tales of raids on distant villages had reached him, the messenger requiring rest before he could divulge them – prized bulls stolen or mutilated, grain stores plundered…thatched barns burnt to ashes. Strangely, he could not feel anger – they were ambitious soldiers, searching for glory and tribute. He had once been a warrior himself, a Fiannian who served the noble Fionn Mac Roich. A foolish mistake as a brash young warrior had branded him for the span of his existence. There were rules to abide by and he had broken the worst kind – refusing hospitality to an old woman. She had placed the gaesa upon him and ensured he would forever be alone – this powerful curse was the most feared by all he knew. He had returned disgraced, to receive instruction from Gwydron, chief druid of the village. But the druidic life was not for him – the prospect of years of damp caves filled with hours of repetitive chanting had only increased his yearning to be in the open fields. So he had become a farmer, dishonouring his father who had always claimed that, “a man is better than his birth.” What his father could not understand was that his connection to the land was strong, much stronger than if he had trained to become a Wise One. Every scrape of the shovel, every calf he delivered into the world, blurred the boundaries between the realms – he did not need the Wise Ones’ ways to enter the Otherworld. Sky, Sea and Land united in his hands – he could almost see the Goddess serving a never-ending feast from the Cauldron of Plenty to her warriors in the burial mound – assisted by cheery fairy folk and exotic multi-coloured creatures. Yet in reality, his seclusion from the ways of the tribe and his expulsion from the Fianna merged with his gaesa into a powerful concoction of isolation and loneliness. zzz Rhiannon carefully shielded her hand in the pleats of her dress to avoid the rusty spikes that protruded from the weathered iron handle. The wood groaned as she forced the cover sideward, wind seeping through the termite tunnels, as if whispering just beyond her range of hearing. It took a great deal of strength to shift – thick planks of oak wood embossed with iron loops - but her effort was rewarded. She knelt cautiously, arms resting on the edge of the well, leaning forward to see the moon within. It was at the end of its cycle and appeared to be resting on the surface of the water before beginning its journey around the earth once more. Infant-like hands clutched the wooden figurine, fingers filling each groove and exploring each bump. She closed her eyes and gently lowered it into the water, which was known to bestow courage and wisdom upon all who drank it. “I call upon Morrigan, Macha and Badh – Maiden, Mother and Crone. I call upon your power to guide me through this trial of faith.” She knew the Triad would protect her – she had come to this place with her mother who had warned her that in times of unrest, she must turn to the Goddess for help. Eager to pass on the folk tales of her ancestors, she had taught her that wells were the womb of the Earth Mother, the moon a symbol of her power. It was the moon that controlled the tides of the sea and the minds of her people. And it was the Earth Mother who would save her tribe from the ruthless armies of Rome. She hoped the figurine so lovingly carved by her grandfather would serve to bring her to the Goddess’s attention. Gwydron was a wise man and if he had decreed that the fate that was bestowed upon her was to seek protection for her tribe, it must be so. For life was just a cycle of birth and death, her death in this world would be celebrated as a birth in the Otherworld, just as a birth in this world was mourned as a death in the Other. Her sacrifice was negligible, even joyous, compared to the alternative. She would live up to her mythical namesake who accompanied by enchanted birds could awaken the dead and lull the living to sleep. Except she alone was to challenge the forces of the enemy. “I seek your protection and trust that you will guard your children from harm. This portion of holy oak I dedicate to you and pray for your blessing. May the Cauldron of Plenty be forever full and the fountain of Danu flow eternal. Through your power you rule the light of the sun, the glory of fire, the strength of rock and the fate of your people.” zzz The day had come for Callun to prove his worth to the Fianna and become a true warrior. Salisbury Woods was a mysterious place, renowned for many Otherworldly journeys made by the Wise Ones. This would test his will even further than those experiences. Callun’s first challenge would be to race through the wood, pursued by the Fianna without so much as breaking a twig in his strictly allocated path – a test of strength of mind and body. He had shot a thirty-pointed spear, could balance on the tip of a lance, fend off five warriors with a shield…but he was not certain about this. Obsessively, he checked once more that the leather strap was tied firmly around his ankle and that the potent boar bristles were still suspended from it. Nothing could go wrong. He began to sprint almost before he heard the ominous blow of the ram’s horn. The trees became one green smear, as if entangling their branches to confuse him. Every step brought danger of his failure, and seemed to taunt the soles of his sandals. He looked back to see a plethora of brown and grey approaching at a rapid rate. Instinctively, he cut through the scrub, the branches digging into his exposed skin. The ankle straps loosened, the bristles were nearly lost. He could not afford to look back as he slashed his route through the woods. He waited, panting, the anticipation as agonising as the pursuit itself. As he began to remove the thistles from his scar-riddled skin, the pack came into view. He stood to face them, flinching as they observed him. The shortcut had been a mistake – he would never become a Fiannian and was not destined for grandeur. Hefel the Elder placed a calloused hand upon his shoulder. “You have shown initiative, courage and wisdom, but there are still trials that remain - I trust that you will not fail.” He turned sharply on his heel and walked away. Callun bowed and fell awkwardly back onto the log – a unique blend of a grin and frown on his face as an inconspicuous thistle found it’s target. zzz Samhain, the annual fire festival of the dead, had finally arrived. The village was dark, all fires extinguished – awaiting the torch runner. The Need-Fires had been lit at Tara and passed throughout the region – the holy flames rekindling both the hearths and souls of the villages. In the darkness lay Callun, awaiting the torch that would kindle his bonfire – and spark his initiation. At first all he could discern was a torch hovering in mid-air, until a young boy came into view - his face covered in soot, arms tender from the blaze. The twigs fractured under the force of the fire as the serpent-tail of the flames reached towards the heavens. His eyes lost focus until all he could see was the tree beyond the flame. He pulled the freshly killed bull’s skin over his body and breathed in deeply, for he knew that Samhain weakened the barrier between the Worlds. Tonight could bring a vision, and if so, he would move one step closer to the Fianna. His hands part the flames but he feels no pain as he steps into the still water of the lake. Fire and water merge, two divine entities, neither evil nor good but sacred in their ability to create and destroy. He walks through the shallows to the bank where the willow branches cascade into the water, creating silver ripples as they move. At the base of the tree lies a coarse sack tied with a golden thread. At first, he shuns the bag and turns to the tree, tracing the symbol cut into its bark - two upright rods overlaid with a horizontal beam. This truly is a place of magic – the seashore the junction of the realms where Land, Sea and Sky unite as one through the power of the tree. Callun is like that tree, arms stretched towards the sky, feet firmly planted in the moist soil. He falls to his knees, palms upwards, swaying with the branches. His movements are that of the wind, the raven and the waves. At last, he gathers the strength to look inside the bag but drops it suddenly as the searing heat emanates from within. Gently, he tries again - this time, within the flames he sees a cage – and within the cage a bird. When his fingers can bear the heat no longer, he parts through the flames and is in the forest once more. zzz Rhiannon treads lightly on the earth, careful not to disturb the fine layers of dust that have settled on the dry, cracked mud, concentrating on placing her feet heel to toe as they proceed down the avenue. The dirt piles on either side are deceiving – disguised as mounds they conceal treacherous ditches, ready to claim unsuspecting revellers. But today, the day of her sacrifice, there would be no revellers. The circle of stones had always been visible from the village, but she had only ever seen it from the corner of her eye for fear of its power. Now she stared at it in all its glory – a ring encompassing a horseshoe arrangement of trilithons – gateways to the Otherworld built by the Goddess. The white robes form a curtain behind her. The hypnotic harmony of the swan-bone flute ceases as she turns around to face the Heel stone. The lonely rock’s attempt to blot out the sun almost succeeds, thin rays forming an aura around it. The Wise Ones walk along the path of light stopping before the Slaughter stone. For a fleeting moment, she contemplates if they would turn back on their promise to raise her to the glory of the Earth Mother and attempt the crude ritual of divination – observing the contortion of her limbs as she lies bleeding on the stone. But they continue, her fear receding as she weaves through the wall of stones, which before had seemed impenetrable. She cannot resist brushing her hand against the rough stone, alternating patterns of jagged protrusions and smooth, moss-filled hollows, watching the light reflect off the amber amulet around her wrist. The chanting of the Wise Ones reverberates from the walls, sounding as if it is emanating from them. But outside, all that can be heard is a muffled murmur of rhythm. zzz The wicker tower stands at the centre of the inner circle, its fibres curling and splintering at the edges at first, then parting swiftly, leaving charred remnants of the once green cane. Callun is not part of it. Smoke stings his eyes but he stares ahead, refusing to allow a tear to escape. Perhaps it is his imagination, but for an instant, he sees Rhiannon’s taut cheeks fall and pink rims form around her eyes. It is as if a hand pierces through those eyes and grabs for him, the nails skimming his face, leaving a tingling sensation he knows is not really there. But it is only for an instant, until the flames engulf those fragile limbs, until her knuckles slowly lose their grip on the scaffolding, until…he looks away. There are no choices, no time left to consider as he charges blindly into the smoke – ignoring the putrid smell of burning hair and the scorched flesh of his palms. The fragile structure succumbs easily – it is not designed for attack – among the smouldering twigs and cane and rope he finds her. He is not prepared for what he sees, the ginger curls shrivelled, like bread left on the coals for far too long, the skin blotched and grainy from the debris. But the chest rises and falls – the simple action brings him satisfaction. The amber amulet is hidden in the rubble. zzz Just as Callun’s tense muscles finally felt relief, he once again sensed the calloused hand upon his shoulder. The stones seemed to spin around him, forming a continuous grey wall. He was surprised at Hefel’s strength as he lifted him, toes dangling in the dirt, and dropped him abruptly into the burial mound. He could not explain what had come over him – but the vision he had seen the previous night had ignited something inside him – she was the caged bird that needed to be set free and he had done what he felt was his duty. How long would they leave him here, consumed by doubt and dirt and fear? He had never liked small spaces, as a child he had never played in tunnels or under tables. He loved the open plains of Salisbury, boundless horizons reaching out to distant lands. Confined in the rabbit-hole cell he began to have misgivings about following his instincts. Why would the Gods have wanted him to disturb a ritual designed to honour them? Perhaps he had just hallucinated, alone in the forest, and this action had nothing to do with the Gods at all. “Rise, it is time for your judgement.” He struggled out of the barrow. Once his lungs had been filled with fresh air he began to walk forward. A firm hand braced his back as the old man led him towards the Trilithon. He could see a white cloth had been spread on the Cromlech – the Altar stone resembling a feast table. His robe restricted his breathing as Hefel pulled it taut behind him. They stood, waiting. Out of a small hessian sack, tied with a golden thread, Gwydron selected a stone. Callun had seen the stones before; engraved with the ancient symbols of his forefathers, they spoke only the truth. But in the same moment as he placed the stone on the cloth, a black raven swooped upon it. Gwydron watched it rise. As if the stone was a worm, the bird ascended far above the circle clutching it fiercely. Dropped abruptly, the stone hit the altar, shattering into fragments. Hefel lost his grip on Callun’s robe. No one else dared to move. Gwydron struggled to transfer his gaze to the people, but appeared transfixed by the fragments. For the first time in his life, Callun saw him falter. Fumbling the sack between his fingers he announced, “ A sign has been bestowed upon us. We must stand alone in this struggle. We must prepare for battle.”
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