Bedtime Story: Reflections Of The Past: Air: Chapter 17
Relax into your evening, or fall asleep, to this recording of the seventeenth chapter of the magical novel 'Reflections Of The Past,' by Vanda Inman. Set in a remote valley in Cornwall, England, 'Reflections Of The Past' tells the story of four characters whose lives intertwine through many incarnations, and of their special relationship with the valley's Sacred Spring and Holy Well. Music by Serge Quadrado Photo by Cottonbro Studio
Transcript
Reflections of the Past A Story of the Guardians of the Well By Vanda Inman These words are written in honour of the guardians of the past,
And those who journey in the name of love,
Light and all that is good.
The answers to all the questions we might ever ask can be found in the ground beneath our feet.
Part 2 Air The Story of St Clodorus The Holy Spring and the Village Church Chapter 17 Beltane It was Beltane Eve.
For days,
The villagers had been busy preparing to drive their cattle through the herb-infused smoke of the fires,
Which would both protect and relieve them of parasites before their journey onto the hills and moors for the summer.
There was an air of excitement all around.
The hard winter months were over,
And new shoots of green spreading through the valley faster than the blink of an eye.
The white flowers of the blackthorn were dying now,
Leaving the fresh green of the hawthorn leaves,
Blossoms shining in all their delicate glory,
Waiting to be picked by the young girls to weave into headdresses and wreaths in celebration of the beginning of the summer months.
Cow parsley danced,
Heads of lacy white tossing in the slight breeze,
And the red campion was beginning to appear,
Mingling with the bluebells,
Which arrived in abundance.
Wherever Rhiannon looked,
She saw beauty,
From the unfurling of the ferns in the clefts of the rocks to the yellow,
Pink and white of the flowers which adorned the valley.
Dominic felt it too.
She could see it in the smile upon his face as he collected newly sprouting herbs for his remedies.
He had promised to teach Rhiannon more herbal lore this summer,
And the villagers were visiting him frequently for help with their ailments.
Since her discovery of his real identity,
They had spoken little of it,
Although Rhiannon felt a sense of awe whenever she looked at him.
You never went away,
She said at one point,
As they sat quietly in the sunshine upon the highest rock,
The ravens circling above them.
It must have been difficult for you.
And miss watching you grow up,
Dominic shook his head,
Never.
Another time,
As Rhiannon pondered recent events,
She had turned to him as they collected wild garlic by the riverbank.
How will I know what to do?
She asked.
And Dominic,
Seemingly finding this a perfectly normal question to be asked completely out of the blue,
Told her that when the time came,
She would be told,
And be in no doubt at all.
Hiding behind the hawthorn tree,
Above the path to the church,
Rhiannon watched the brothers as they made their own preparations for the day they called by another name,
But was in fact still Beltane.
That morning Rhiannon had plaited her long dark hair,
And entwined it with flowers of celandine and daisies.
She wove a circlet of mayflowers for her head,
And along with the other young girls of the village,
Similarly dressed,
Walked the length of the valley at first light,
Their footsteps dispelling the early morning dew,
The sun gaining strength as their procession continued.
Rhiannon felt the touch of spring upon her face,
And felt at one with the world.
A heron started up from the riverbank as they approached,
Heading down the valley on slow,
Flapping wings,
And swallows swooped overhead while other birds sang noisily in the clear morning air.
Although the Beltane fires would be lit,
And followed by the usual singing,
Dancing and merrymaking,
The brothers had announced that first there would be a special church service in honour of the ascension of their Lord to heaven.
There was a muttering amongst the villagers,
Yet no one challenged the decision.
At least when it was over,
Events could continue as usual.
Now,
With the time of yet another special service drawing near,
Rhiannon noticed Cleda hurrying along the path,
A bundle beneath his arm.
Cleda!
She jumped down from her hiding place.
What are you carrying?
For a moment he hugged the bundle to him.
It was large and square,
Wrapped in a piece of sackcloth.
A hostile look crossed his face as he noticed Rhiannon's crown of mayflowers.
She touched it,
Smiling prettily.
Do you like it?
Cleda shook his head,
Clutching his bundle more tightly.
Then,
Remembering Rhiannon's question,
His face relaxed into a smile,
And he smoothed the cloth lovingly.
It is my work,
He said simply.
The very first copy of the writings of St Cledarus.
He pulled the sackcloth aside to reveal a large,
Square stack of parchment.
And this,
He continued,
Pointing to an even older looking bundle,
Is the original copy of St Cledarus's words,
From which I have been working.
Rhiannon reached out her hand,
But he drew away,
As if afraid her touch would sully the writings,
Holding the scripts so she could see the illuminations and lettering,
But ensuring they remained a suitable distance apart.
Rhiannon frowned.
And this is?
It all looked very pretty,
She supposed,
But she struggled to understand how these squiggles could be the words of someone as important as St Cledarus,
Although Dominic had spent some time attempting to explain the concept to her,
And even taught her which signs made certain sounds.
Brother Jeremiah is well pleased,
Said Cleda importantly.
These will be blessed this evening.
It is said Prior John will be coming to take the service himself.
It is indeed a great honour.
Rhiannon watched him hurry along the path,
Her eyes narrowing.
She sensed someone approaching,
And turned to find Brother Jeremiah standing behind her.
A pretty maiden and a beautiful evening,
He greeted her.
I trust you are on your way to church?
Rhiannon nodded silently,
Fighting the urge to run as fast and as far as she possibly could from the man.
There was something about him which made her insides knot and slither,
Like watching a dangerous snake writhing on the path,
Unsure if it was about to strike.
She wondered why Cleda thought so much of him.
All she could see was the light of fanaticism in his eyes,
Which she somehow felt was directed towards her.
She noticed how his fat fingers continually caressed the wooden cross which hung from his neck over his large stomach,
And the way he thoughtfully smoothed the glinting red of his beard as he watched her.
Of course,
She replied reluctantly,
As they fell into step together.
And what is this script which Brother Cleda has made?
A worthy piece of work,
He is a clever young man,
Replied Brother Jeremiah,
Although already married to God,
He has no thoughts for other pleasures.
He caught her elbow as she stumbled,
Holding it a second longer than necessary,
Before reluctantly letting go.
I shall look forward to meeting with you later this evening,
He murmured.
The Beltane fires should be enjoyed by one and all.
Rhiannon felt a surge of horror at his words,
As they approached the church to find Cleda waiting at the little gateway.
Cleda scowled at Rhiannon,
Before turning to escort Brother Jeremiah inside,
Already pulling the cloth from his manuscripts and speaking in low,
Excited tones,
Leaving Rhiannon aware the time had come to act.
But still,
She did not know what she was supposed to do.
For Rhiannon and the villagers,
The service was even more tedious than usual,
With plenty of talk about heaven and hell,
And a God who died,
Returned,
And seemingly disappeared once more.
Rhiannon lost the gist of the story at this point,
And a never-ending blessing of the scripts of the words of St Cladaris,
Copied by Cleda,
Along with the originals.
After numerous chants by the brothers,
When finally it was all over,
The scripts lay in pride of place upon the granite altar,
For everyone to admire.
Much to Cleda's disappointment,
Prior John had not appeared,
Although Cleda could have listened to Brother Jeremiah preaching forever,
And felt a vague sense of sadness when the last prayer had been uttered.
Only when the service was over were the villagers free to pursue their own celebrations.
As everyone dispersed into the twilight,
Much more quickly than they had assembled,
Rhiannon wandered around to the back of the church to the spring.
It always amazed her how the brothers took so little notice of it.
They were still inside the church,
Congratulating Brother Cleda on his scripts,
Or at least Brother Jeremiah was,
And showing them to anyone who had been unfortunate not to escape quickly enough.
Whilst outside,
All was quiet,
And there was no one to be seen.
Rhiannon knelt beside the pool of water,
As she had before,
And took out the leather pouch,
Shaking its contents onto her hand,
Admiring once again the intricate craftsmanship of the wooden pendant and smoothness of the spearhead,
Then placed them on the stone beside her.
Perhaps,
She thought,
If she gazed into the water hard enough,
She might see the girl again,
The first guardian of the spring.
Rhiannon had no doubt of the message of the spearhead,
To fight for her heritage and restore the spring to the women.
But she had no spear or other weapon,
And knew this not to be her way.
There must be another.
Allowing her gaze to rest upon the surface of the water,
Rhiannon willed the first guardian to appear.
But nothing happened.
From inside the church,
She could hear the low murmur of the voices of the brothers,
And occasionally the words,
Scripts,
And writings in Cleda's tones.
Apart from this,
All was quiet,
Save for the far-off shouts of the villagers as they lit the Beltane fires.
Dusk was closing in,
And again Rhiannon wondered what she was to do.
She touched the spearhead,
The pendant,
Gazed into the water,
Aware she was probably trying too hard,
A feeling of panic overtaking her.
Some inner instinct told her this was the time to act,
But she had no idea how,
And time was running short.
As Rhiannon gazed,
She saw swooping swallows reflected in the water,
Moving in ever-increasing circles,
Their flight swift and precise.
There seemed to be more and more of them.
Rhiannon was just about to turn to look into the sky above her,
When she realised they had disappeared,
And the spring was now filled with Mayflowers,
The delicate white of the hawthorn,
Like froth upon the surface.
Then slowly a face began to take shape,
And she realised there had never been a swoop of swallows above her,
Nor Mayflowers upon the water,
For the undulating flight of the swallows formed the hair of the woman she was watching,
And the Mayflowers her gown.
Rhiannon watched,
Entranced.
She almost held her breath,
The vision was so lovely,
The most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her entire life.
Help me,
Murmured Rhiannon.
Please tell me what to do.
The vision continued to stare steadily at her.
Rhiannon was sure there was a message in the dark eyes,
But was unable to read it,
And began to feel frustrated with her failure.
Then the vision abruptly faded,
Leaving only the reflection of a flickering flame upon the surface of the water.
Rhiannon sensed a movement,
And turned to find Brother Jeremiah standing behind her,
A tall beeswax candle in his hand,
The flame of which lit his features grotesquely in the deepening twilight.
Come,
Dear girl.
He held out a podgy hand.
Come,
And I will show you the works of St.
Clodorus and our dear Brother Cleda.
Rhiannon felt a stab of disappointment.
After the beauty of her vision,
She still had no answer,
And the fire in the water had merely been a reflection of the candle held by Brother Jeremiah.
She swiftly collected the spearhead and pendant,
Secreting them in the leather pouch before he had time to see what she was doing.
Noticing a tiny circlet of mayflower blossom floating gently upon the surface of the water,
She picked it up and tucked it into her bodice,
Wondering where it had come from.
This is indeed a special night,
Began Brother Jeremiah,
As he took her hand and helped her to her feet.
Indeed,
Replied Rhiannon,
Removing herself from his grasp as swiftly as possible,
For tonight is the time of the Beltane fires.
And with those words,
She knew what to do.
