When Its Not Set In Stone (2) He picked up a stone from the earth. Imitating his motion, the Fiannians within the Henge picked up stones and formed a pile upon the Altar, one for each warrior entering battle. Callun placed the last stone on the pile, threatening to unbalance it. He looked apprehensively at the Wise One who simply nodded his approval. Against this foreign invader, they needed all the strong men they could muster. zzz The Roman’s sword gleamed as the setting sun channelled it’s fading light in a last futile attempt to prevent the battle. As if understanding its message the soldier returned it to its sheath, searching for it intuitively as he could not shift his gaze from the hilltop. He was new to the ways of the Roman army but he knew this could not possibly be a routine conquest. Out on the hilltop, in what seemed a frantic blur of chaos, he could just make out the shapes of women dancing. The skirts of Rhiannon’s rough cotton dress chaffed against her blistered skin but this pain was overshadowed by the risk she was taking. Armed with only a hazel branch she joined the swarm, scorched hair periodically obscuring her vision. If this was what it took to help defend her land, she would act her part. He was unsure of how to interpret the scene. Even the more seasoned soldiers paced restlessly, awaiting a command. It came at last in the form of the General. “I am almost ashamed to call you my men, whimpering like injured stags before a crowd of old crones. Get up and…charge!” There was no time to run, all they could do was to link arms to form a barricade before the warriors. There was no better weapon than a shield of women to deter the soldiers. Spears and wooden shields may suffice in one-on-one combat, but for this battle they were wholly unprepared. He reached the hilltop, sword thrust forward into the wall of women. He felt unease as the cherry liquid dribbled towards the ground but charged forward as he had been commanded. The sight of the warrior halted him momentarily in the same instant as a spear pierced his chest. Before him stood Callun, encrusted with ghoulish images of devil-gods from head to foot. A blue serpent spiralled up his forearm, while an owl with peculiar round eyes decorated his chest. His shoulders were painted with flames and his legs were elongated lions. His clothing appeared to consist of golden torques around neck and waist - this man was not one who feared death. The combination of ragged ebony hair and menacing, barren eyes served to distract him – giving Callun an opportunity to attack. zzz Callun’s blood dripped from the spear into the lake, becoming paler pink and diluting until it could no longer be seen. The willow beckoned once more as he wound his arms around its hard trunk. He felt the blue of his skin melt into the bark, his arms reaching the luminous sky with its branches. He had fought with all his strength but had finally succumbed to his destiny. Callun knew that this would be his place in the Otherworld – he had defended his land, and would now be the guardian of the willow. zzz The rock pile remains untouched - a monument to the darkest day the village has ever seen – the loss of its youth, its warriors and its maidens. The staccato rhythm of the soldiers’ marching vibrates through the soil, forcing a dormant mouse to scurry into the straw. The torch held in the soldier’s gloved hand reaches almost to the roof of the barn, teasing the thatch. He flings it carelessly into the straw, as if discarding soiled clothing. Turning his back, he is oblivious to the farmer huddled behind the bales. Cyfan clutches the raven’s dropped stone fragments – meticulously arranging them so that the engravings form a comprehensible image. Eolh, the rune of peace. He would not be alone any longer. “Man has demonstrated that he is master of everything - except his own nature.” - Henry Miller 1985 From the window he can see the parade passing the manor, flags waving frantically, and hear the sounds of cheers and whistles perforating the air as the village folk wish the travellers well. The procession of assorted vehicles extends far down the road, some haphazardly repaired, occupants restless like toddlers on a bus ride. They do not notice the coat of arms on the front gates. An owl watches intently from the crest of the meticulously engraved shield of a long-forgotten knight. The scroll’s stately motto “Patrocinor Et Proficio”, “to protect and to aid” guards the entrance to the manor. “Buckley, fetch my riding helmet, we can follow them. This might add some amusement to an otherwise tedious day.” “Yes, Earl Cardigan, right away” replies the faithful servant, his face forming a smirk as he turns towards the door. [[[ As the wooden peg dislodges tight clumps of earth, the flimsy tent shivers, as if wishing it could locate shelter. The task is abandoned temporarily to survey the field. Chaotic swirls of red mingle with daffodil yellows and earthly greens on the side of the van. Everywhere around her, enthusiastic travellers set up camp, anticipating the solstice. But is it the spiritual yearning or the chance of confrontation that brings them? Some people seem to spend their whole lives searching for confrontation. Tents pop erratically from the ground, an organised labyrinth of newly made snake-trails amongst them. She follows the meandering trail, skipping to place her feet in the over-sized boot-prints. The prints veer slowly towards a trilithon, the horizontal beam balancing almost precariously on its supports. She traces the engraving, bangles sprinkling music to the wind. “Jadon was here ’85.” The growth of moss and lichens had been disturbed, the cuts etched deep into the surface. Even the hasty knife cuts cannot mask his distinctive style but she knows she will say nothing. A warm hand now rests on the waist of her blouse, coarse fingers exploring the rings and buckles of her broad belt, heat leaving yellow fingerprints on its sensitive fluoro-pink surface. Marble cake eyes stare into hers, milk chocolate mingling with flecks of dark. Why is it that lust always seems linked to food, and a perfectly rational female mind can be so easily swayed? With an invisible thread, your stare is transfixed. Unfalteringly, you pursue your aim. And I refuse to surrender. The grass wavers, as if bowing under your command but I dismiss the power. Why is it that your razor cuts deeper, your knife stabs causing greater wounds? Or is it that the stones peel away their layers, exposing defenceless flesh for you to target? And just when I think you are swinging that axe blindly, you fell the tree, its sap oozing out and forming intricate patterns in the base of your bucket. It flows slowly at first, resisting your temptation. But as time passes, whole globules form, each with a story of its own and a monument to my destruction. But I wonder, what happens to the tree once all the sap has gone, do the withered branches form crackling noises beneath your feet? Or do you pour the sap back in, straighten the tree and leave? For what becomes of those who dare to oppose? Are they felled like that old tree, forming debris for scavengers? Or do they blossom from saplings, their branches reaching the highest heights and whitest clouds? And I wonder what will become of me, now that all have seen. For I am Callun, guardian of the willow, my limbs trailing in the lake of uncertainty, a refuge for the raven of despair. “Is something wrong? You look spaced out…” the familiar voice croons. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea…we shouldn’t have come…I’ve got a bad feeling about all this” she responds, each statement sounding less confident than the one before. His eyes possess an uncanny ability to whittle away any empowerment in hers. Fingers roll matted hair into fine strands as she remembers the restless night before. The vivid nightmare lurks stealthily on her eyelids. The badge dominates the monotone uniform, mocking her with its luminescence. Baton raised, he prepares to strike. She rolls impulsively, avoiding the blow. All around, the scene is repeated like a shattered mirror reflecting a single image infinitely. He is faceless, almost. Expressionless. Cold. Steel. Back in reality, the drumbeat reverberates from the stones, echoes intermingling with fresh sounds like ghosts. The incessant pulse sends vibrations through the soil and she cannot help but sway, hypnotised by its rhythm. He locks her hand in his, drawing her towards the ring of people formed within the stone circle. Head rocking from side to side, her arms are stretched out into the loop. Transcending space and time she flies through the field, serenity filling every limb and orifice. The whirlpool of wings continues to spin, forming a merged body, the vertigo of which seems to reside in her head. A siren only exacerbates the pain as the police car skids across the grass. The whirlpool collapses, the vortex stifled with a plug. The line between nightmare and reality fading with every step the officer takes towards her. But it is not her he wants. “Are you the one responsible?” he snaps, flushed fleshy cheeks inflating to full capacity, as if his mouth was about to burst forth flames. Power intoxicates him, infiltrating his blood and spreading like a parasite through his body. “Do you realise that congregating at Stonehenge is a punishable offence?” Those proud eyes stare ahead defiantly. “…Anything you say...used against you…” His face melts into that of a dragon, the starched uniform into slimy green scales. She can see the swarm of baton-weaving, shield-carrying androids advancing. The swirls on the van are soon dented, images gaining unintended texture. The windscreen is not spared. Two helmeted men perch awkwardly on their motorbikes, observing the spectacle. Nightmare and reality, there is no distinction, just hazy shades of grey and nothingness. Fear. Vertebrae locking. All-pervading. Fear. The line between fading, slowly obliterated by a giant eraser, with a knowing smirk on its rubber face. Smoke clouds my mind, barring external influence. Inside my bubble I cannot hear the screaming or see blood leech into the cracked earth. The tears do not move me, nor the stifled whimpers of the valiant. In the centre of what was once a peaceful gathering stands an abandoned child, in the figure of an adult. In her memories, she will always see it from outside, observing the droplets form and travel southwards. Only the persistent tugging at her sleeve draws her back into the madness. Shards of glass litter the seats, hastily discarded as the decrepit van swerves away. Crunch. The sound of tyres on spilt gravel. Pop. The sound of a van that has seen its last adventure. The army continues to fulfil its orders, somewhere beneath the masks lies their humanity. Immobile bodies lie against a green backdrop, limbs contorted at unusual angles, blood contrasting their pure white garments. Some rock backwards and forwards, hoping the motion will make them disappear, others lean on stones to support their bruised frames. The forces continue to battle, trapped by more than the stone circle that surrounds them. [[[ The willow’s branches form a semi-protective shell around its visitors, as if unsure whether to trap or aid them. Roxanne wraps the threadbare shawl tighter around herself, huddling against Jadon. She can see the majestic circle on the horizon, the motionless raven perching on the branch above can see even farther. “We shouldn’t have come and we definitely shouldn’t go back” she muffles into his shoulder. “Wod’ya say?” “It was your decision to come here and now look where we are – running from the cops when we could be safely at home drinking hot chocolate and wearing fuzzy slippers.” “Where’s ya sense of adventure Roxy? Dontchya feel the rush?” “I hope you know what you’re doing, you’ll get yourself into trouble. How was I dragged into this anyway…” she stops abruptly as those trance inducing eyes once again draw her in and she knows the answer to her own question. The Raven’s presence triggers a long forgotten remnant to resurface in her mind, learnt what now seems an eternity ago, “And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting...And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming…” [[[ The muscles in her ankles ached from the trek but she consoled herself with the fact that they would soon be back to claim their rightful place – or what Jadon seemed to think was lawfully theirs. He glided from rock to rock while she lagged behind, trying to prevent her skirt trailing in the mud. “C’mon, we wanna be there by sunrise!” She had had enough; removing the knife trailing from his belt she slashed the fabric, tying it in knots around her thighs. “Better.” The mud grew thicker as they reached the crest of the hill, feet buried above the sock-line. Momentarily pausing to extract her foot from the ravenous earth, she noticed a row of guards pacing, batons ready. “Duck!” she half-yelled, half-whispered. The mud clung to every pore as they surveyed the area, bodies submerged. “Check out that pattern…walk towards the centre, turn around and walk back…they leave the centre unattended…get ready.” As predicted, the guards turned their backs, pointing flashlights before them. The pair crawled across the bean-field, watching others follow their trail. The stone circle could be seen in the distance. New bean seedlings tried desperately to obscure them but their greenery failed to camouflage three hundred determined youth. The first rays of light had begun to protrude, giving the area a peculiar sensation of imbalance. As they ran towards the stones, dazzling pinks and yellows were cast out of lavender clouds, the sky’s morning gift. In their excitement, some mounted the stones, euphoric cheers filling the empty space. They grin for they have outsmarted their oppressors. But in their artificial ecstasy, they cannot see the masochistic nature of their act – degrading the very stones they seek to protect. She is drawn into the whirlpool once again, arms extended like a long exotic word, its meaning long forgotten. Just as the beat starts vibrating through her veins his hand is torn from hers, the link severed, the music muted. “You are now charged with resisting arrest, unlawful congregation and public nuisance.” The omnipresent badge soaks in the pinks and yellows, morphing them into jagged gold and black. Patronizingly he forces Jadon inside the car, with a caring hand protecting his head. Through her mind flows the bittersweet liqueur of uncertainty. Slowly, the liquid evaporates, droplets of regret filling the enclosed space and permeating the thin membranes of her soul. [[[ “Earl Cardigan, you claim to have been a witness to the event that took place at Stonehenge on the first of June?” “Yes, Buckley and I followed the travellers, I thought it might be entertaining to see how the festival went.” “ And you claim that you saw police hit these er, ‘travellers’ for no reason? Why would they do that?” “You should ask them. They came to my grounds the next day and asked if they could ‘finish off the job’. Call me a traitor to my class, but it shouldn’t matter if they are penniless travellers or Her Royal Majesty, no one deserves to be treated in that way. These lands were given to the people by Sir Cecil Chubb in 1918 and English Heritage has broken their promise to keep it open to the public – I think it is an achievement on their part to protest against this injustice.” “No further questions your honour.” Drifting. Falling. The invisible thread is pulled taut and snaps Leaving me standing amongst the rubble of a lost civilisation, the river drained for ‘progress’ of the new. Will I be paper-pulp for shopping lists with doodled dreams around the margin (of houses with chimney-stacks and never-ending swirls of stars), lying crumpled in the dustbin? Inside my bubble I cannot hear the screaming or see blood leech into the cracked earth. Floating to the highest heights and whitest clouds, awaiting the pinprick that will shatter the façade. “Power pollutes whatever it touches…makes the human frame a mechanised automaton.” – Percy Shelley 1822 Epilogue 2001 Rubber soles drag across the concrete, covering the white leather with a fine layer of dust. “Muuummm, we’re not gonna stay long are we? I left my Gameboy in the car.” The comment was ignored. Pupils dilated as they entered the poorly lit tunnel, dimensions decreasing suddenly, as if they had all been transported to Alex’s favourite toy. But a hazy green light marked ‘EXIT’ showed that the path merged into the Avenue. Alex clung onto the rope staring at the field of stones before him. To his fertile imagination, the stones seemed to leer at him, mutating into goblins and gnomes, daring him to step closer. Stealing a glance at the guard, he was shocked to see the formerly impassive face form a smile. “Keep up Alex, we didn’t pay two pounds for you to miss the talk.” “Stonehenge has an impressive history, dating back to 2000 BC…it has always been regarded as a place of power, intrinsically linked to the land and its inhabitants…” “Tom said that there’s a porthole from here to the US and the government uses it to experiment with time travel” whispered Alex, eyes darting to the guard. “The Heel stone you can see ahead has an interesting legend. The Devil built Stonehenge after using magic to transport the stones from Ireland…he gave a riddle to the local villagers…when the Friar was correct; the Devil threw one of the stones at him. The stone hit the friar's heel and was dented…and it is now know as the Heel stone,” continued the guide. “And he also said UFOs land here and his cousin said it was built by people from Atlantis…Mum, why can’t we go and touch them? What's the point of standing so far away?” The lines of disappointment are clearly imprinted on her face as she turns towards her son. “Those are the rules. Stop swinging on the rope. Come on, we’re going home.” He kicks the dirt, stopping when something obstructs the movement. Crouching down and picking up the amber amulet, he twists it between his fingers before depositing it in his pocket.
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