Bedtime Story: Reflections Of The Past: Fire: Chapter 19
Relax into your evening, or fall asleep, to this recording of the nineteenth 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.
Transcript
Reflections of the Past A Story of the Guardians of the Well By Vanda Inn Part Three Fire Medieval Magic The Legend of the Maidens of the Wells The Sacred Well And the Chapel in the Valley Meadowsweet Meadowsweet has long been known to promote love and peace.
Fresh meadowsweet can be placed on the altar for love spells,
Or dried to be used in various love potions.
If gathered at midsummer,
The meadowsweet will give you information regarding thieves.
If you have been robbed,
Place meadowsweet on water.
If it sinks,
The thief is a man.
If it floats,
A woman.
The Legend of the Maidens of the Wells Long,
Long ago,
All of the sacred wells of the land were tended by maidens,
Who gave refreshment to travellers from golden chalices.
A traveller had only to arrive at a sacred well,
And a maiden would issue forth to provide sustenance.
These maidens were sometimes known as the Voices of the Wells,
For they were also oracles,
Forming a link between this world and the other world,
For at the sites of the wells,
The veils between the worlds were thin.
Because of the existence of the Maidens of the Wells,
The land flourished and was filled with beauty and contentment.
One day,
The evil King Amangans attacked one of the maidens and stole her golden chalice,
Using it as a trophy for himself.
His men did likewise,
Although it was their duty to protect the maidens.
Subsequently,
The maidens were forced into the other world,
And from that day on,
They tended their wells no more.
But without the maidens,
The wells fell into disrepair.
No sustenance was offered to passing travellers,
And the land became a wasteland,
As the maidens and the reciprocal link with the other world had been lost.
The land was overcome with drought and misery,
No longer rich and filled with its previous abundance.
Many years later,
King Arthur and his knights set out on the quest for the Holy Grail,
Searching for the court of the Fisher King,
Where the Grail was said to rest.
The Fisher King was bound to the land,
But because he himself was wounded,
His land was also a wasteland.
The Fisher King spent his time fishing the unconscious world in order to discover answers,
But could not be healed until he was asked specific questions and had given his reply.
King Arthur's knights vowed to rescue the maidens of the wells,
And indeed found them not to be dead,
But living in the forest of the other world,
Where they had been residing all along.
Chapter 19 Beltane The sun rose,
A golden orb in the sky illuminating the remnants of the night's frost nestling amidst the landscape.
As it steadily climbed above the towering rocks,
The sprinkling of white covering the valley rapidly disappeared,
Allowing the fresh green to shine through.
Fingers of gold threaded the leaves of the hawthorn trees which guarded the enclosure,
Caressing their moss-covered trunks and tinging their newly opened leaves with light.
Rosenwyn closed her eyes,
Revelling in the first warmth of the early morning sunlight upon her skin.
She was ready now,
Having risen well before dawn to undertake her rituals and preparations for the day ahead.
She had bathed her face in the morning dew,
Walked three times barefoot around the chapel,
And finally collected a cup of water from the sacred well,
Mixed it with dew drops and held it aloft to the rising sun of Beltane.
Now she rested outside the chapel,
Surveying her surroundings and feeling,
At that moment,
The only person in the world.
Earlier Rosenwyn had braided her hair and wound it tightly around her head,
Piled high and woven with spring flowers of daisy and selenite.
A crown of May flowers waited for later,
Intricately laced with meadow sweet and rowan leaves.
She pulled her woolen cloak around her,
Green at this time of the year to match the freshness of the valley.
Come autumn she would don a warmer cloak of russets,
Yellows and browns.
Smiling contentedly,
She thought of the turning of the seasons and the will of the year.
Much as she loved the autumn,
With its rich tapestry of colours and abundance of fruits hanging heavy on the bag,
She harboured an infinite love for the springtime,
With new life bursting forth and the sap rising in the branches,
The sun gaining strength and a feeling of hope in the air.
Are you ready my lady?
Asked a soft voice,
And Rosenwyn turned to see one of the maidens standing at the gateway.
A moment longer,
She smiled as the girl retreated,
Respecting her high priestess' wish for a little more solitude before the duties of the day began.
As Rosenwyn watched her retreat,
She noticed the way the girl had braided her hair in one long thick plait down her back,
And her thoughts traced back through the years to a time when she had been young enough to do the same and allow her dark hair to swing free and wild as the Beltane celebrations reached their height.
She could see herself clearly,
With the vision,
Which came upon her more often as the years progressed,
And was aware that this had happened not in her present lifetime,
But one long ago.
Rosenwyn raised her hand and patted her head,
Ensuring everything was in place.
Today,
The maidens of the wells were journeying to her chapel.
It was a rare occurrence for them to congregate,
But as high priestess,
It was fitting that on this particular day,
The maidens who tended the wells should travel to her for the Beltane ritual in celebration of new life and new beginnings.
Without the maidens of the wells,
The land will become a wasteland.
How many times had Rosenwyn heard those words,
In her dreams,
In her meditations,
Sometimes when she was sitting quietly in her chapel,
At others when she was going about her daily business of gathering herbs or giving healing to a villager?
The voice would come,
Whispering out of nowhere,
Taking her by surprise each time.
Yet when she turned,
She knew no one would be there,
For she also understood it came from another time and another place.
To all intents and purposes,
A group of young women who tended the sacred wells,
Of which there were many.
Yet everyone knew,
Without it ever having been explained,
Their importance was not simply in the refreshment offered to passing travellers,
Nor to the fact the maidens were also oracles,
Able to foretell the future to those who asked,
Or even their ability to prepare simple herbal remedies.
No,
There was more,
Something indefinitely linked with the land and the people,
And the maidens were representative of this.
During the past hundred years,
The cult of the maidens of the wells had grown enormously in stateness and significance,
To the extent that Father Christopher was beginning to feel threatened.
She could see it in his bright blue eyes,
Wary and awash with a shadow of fear when he spoke with her.
And it worried her,
For she no longer trusted what might happen,
Was no longer secure in the knowledge the maidens would be protected and revered,
As they had been for so long.
Without the maidens of the wells,
The land will become a wasteland.
The voice whispered in Rosenwind's mind,
Jerking her back to the present,
Bringing the realisation she had been on the verge of trance,
Immersed in her thoughts.
Sometimes she tried to match a face with the voice,
But it was always too elusive to catch.
One thing she did know,
With a certainty which never wavered,
She was waiting for someone,
Waiting for a man to fulfil a destiny which was connected to her and,
More importantly,
The maidens.
And she knew,
For she had seen his shadowy figure in her dreams,
That when he came,
It would be when the blackthorn blossom was falling from the trees in drifts of white and the hawthorn shimmering green across the land.
He would come when the bluebells,
The red campions and the white of the cow-parsley vied with the daisies and the buttercups to light up the valley.
And she knew,
With an ever-growing certainty,
His coming would be today.
Above her two ravens croaked and a buzzard gave its high-pitched cry.
A blackbird called and rosin wind rose to see the Beltane procession of villagers and maidens wending its way through the valley towards her,
Drums beating and voices raised in song.
As she stood,
She caught the briefest glimpse of movement on the other side of the river.
She paused,
Attempting to focus,
But was too far away and could only make out the green of new leaves and the gold of gorse.
Rosin Wind took a deep breath and raised her arms high and wide open to the sky.
Her day had begun.
