Chapter 20 It had been a long and arduous journey.
Justin had travelled throughout the night,
Pausing only to rest his mount and quench his thirst before continuing onwards.
It had been clear,
Stars shining like distant jewels,
The moonlight causing the landscape to appear as bright as the day.
Pools of silver interspersed with the blackness of long low shadows lay before him as the steady sound of his mount's footsteps echoed through the landscape.
A fox barked.
A hare flashed across the open downland and at one point a great white owl flew low and ahead,
Pausing to rest upon the bow of a tree before moving on again.
Almost as if showing him the way.
Now the sun was rising,
Dispelling the coolness of the night,
Yet leaving a tingle in the air,
The first fingers of gold creeping over the top of the mound ahead,
And as he approached he could feel in his heart that he was close,
Very close.
As he whirled his way through the last bend in the valley,
The sun rising before him,
The full moon hanging in perfect symmetry,
He saw it.
Justin halted his mount and stayed quite still for several moments,
As if in a trance,
As if he could not quite believe his eyes.
Amidst the tumble of greenery,
He could make out a tiny roof,
Surmounted by a cross at each end,
And he knew his quest to be over at last.
His mount snorted and stamped,
Bringing Justin back to the present,
And he became aware of the rushing river and the high call of two buzzards circling overhead.
To his left,
White rocks towered,
One a pinnacle,
Covered in greenery and white blackthorn blossom,
Surmounted by a crown of golden gorse,
And quite unexpectedly,
Justin turned his mount away,
Unable to move closer.
Visions flooded into his mind,
Stronger and clearer than ever before,
Of a young man standing on a rock,
Hurling his spear high into the air,
A feeling of exhilaration and ecstasy filling his entire being.
And then he heard,
Once again,
The high scream,
Which had haunted his dreams throughout his life,
And he knew,
Without a doubt,
He had also returned to the scene of his nightmares.
Beneath his tunic,
His hands sought the brilliant green and violet crystal he had found thousands of miles away,
The colours of which always reminded him of the place in his dreams.
There was,
He felt from the very first,
Something special about the crystal,
And he kept it with him throughout his journeying,
A talisman and bringer of good luck.
He recalled seeing a bridge further back along the valley,
And turning his horse around,
Decided to cross to the other side,
Perhaps delaying the inevitable moment when he would finally reach his destination.
After crossing the river,
He guided his mount to the brow of the low hill,
Where he had a much clearer view.
Allowing his horse to graze,
Justin walked to a point where he could see the whole of the valley spread before him,
From the white rocks above the little chapel to the rushing river below.
The bridge lay to his left,
A little settlement along the valley to the right.
A movement caught his eye as a woman appeared from the chapel,
And he knelt,
Fading into the greenery,
As she moved around the building before finally standing for some moments with her arms raised to the sky.
Justin swallowed and felt tears sting his eyes.
The scene was so beautiful,
And he had travelled so long and hard to reach the place.
Along the valley he heard the first drumbeats of the Beltane procession,
And for a moment,
Although he was much too far away to be sure,
Had the impression the woman was aware of him,
For she was standing perfectly still and looking intently in his direction.
Justin blinked,
Made the sign of the cross,
Placed his hands together,
And began to pray.
As the procession wound its way along the valley,
Father Christopher stood still as stone,
Lips pursed.
His church normally saw a good congregation.
Indeed,
The villagers would have been fined had they not attended the service every Sunday,
Providing him with a large captive audience.
But today they had deserted him for the Beltane celebrations,
And everyone's focus was on the chapel,
The priestess of the well,
And her maidens.
Damn that woman!
May she burn in hell!
Muttered Father Christopher in a most ungodly manner,
Running his hands through what was left of his thinning fair hair.
He had known Rosinwen since He had known Rosinwen since she was a child,
And inoffensive as she appeared then,
He instinctively felt that one day she would be a force to be reckoned with.
And how right he was!
The procession passed in a crescendo of drumbeats and singing,
Voices raised in harmony to greet the Beltane morn,
And Father Christopher retreated into the cool interior of the church,
Dim and comforting after the brightness of the day outside.
He touched the smooth round pillars of soft stone,
And once more admired the newly built tower.
The villagers had worked hard on the tower,
Demonstrating their faith and love of God,
Carrying out Father Christopher's bidding at all times,
And he was justifiably proud of it.
The only thorn in his side was the fact they had,
At the final hour,
Rebelled against his wishes,
And also insisted on working on the little chapel and sacred well which nestled further along the valley,
Enlarging the building,
Adding a stone covering to the well and granite channels which directed the water beneath the altar.
This was completely new,
And no one seemed quite sure who thought of it,
But even he had to admit there was something special about the mingling of stone and water which added a spiritual quality to the place.
They even made it impossible to stand in the position of power behind the altar,
Appearing to be more interested in playing a part themselves in the religious proceedings,
Rather than listening to just one person,
Such as himself,
Who was eminently more qualified to guide and direct their worship and prayer.
Of course,
It had been explained it was in order for the water to run over the relics of St Clodorus himself,
Secreted in a special chamber behind the altar,
And indeed a number of pilgrims visited every year to pay their respects and drink of the sacred waters.
The relics of St Clodorus had remained in the little chapel,
Which had once been the village church itself,
But this was not a situation to Father Christopher's liking,
And he fought hard to have the relics moved to the present church,
Where he felt they should rightfully be,
And which the pilgrims should visit.
But to his fury,
The villagers sided with Rosenwin,
And he knew he was defeated.
That was when he realised the ridiculous cult of the Maidens of the Wells must end.
The Maidens of the Wells.
For the life of him,
He could not see why they were so important,
And why the people turned to them in their hour of need,
Rather than to his God.
Despite his repeated sermons,
In an attempt to save their souls,
They attended his church,
They listened to his words,
They almost always did his bidding,
But he knew deep down their hearts were not truly with him,
But at the little chapel in the valley with Rosenwin,
Or the High Priestess,
Or even the Lady,
As some insisted on calling her.
And it hurt,
It stung and grew,
Like the evil growth which had appeared on the face of one of the villagers last year,
Which God had not seen fit to heal,
But Rosenwin,
In her herbal wisdom and against all the odds,
Had cured.
And now,
Seeing the procession of maidens,
Their hair entwined with flowers,
Circlets of mayflowers about their heads,
And each carrying a chalice as a symbol of her position,
Father Christopher was overcome with such frustration he should have sank to his knees and prayed for forgiveness,
But instead he began to plot.
There was a whirl and a plop as a flurry of bubbles rose to the surface.
Duncan sighed.
He had been fishing since before dawn,
Spending most of the time in complete stillness,
Allowing his mind to wander into the murky depths where he often journeyed,
But had not caught a thing.
Duncan pulled his line in,
Knowing it was not really fish for which he had been searching.
The act of sitting on the riverbank,
Appearing to all intents and purposes as if he were trying to catch a fish,
Usually kept people well away,
Leaving him in peace and solitude,
And he was able to allow his mind to wander to places most people never knew existed.
He was searching,
Searching,
But for what he was unsure,
Only aware that whatever it was lay just beneath the surface,
Like an elusive fish,
Too clever and slippery to be caught.
He stretched his leg,
Rubbing the stiffness away,
Wishing he had not been afflicted with constant pain and a limp which caused him to shuffle since childhood,
And the problem was that as he grew older the worse it became.
Duncan sighed again.
It was Beltane and his mind was not really on the silver river rushing before him or the fish within,
It was more on the little chapel which nestled below the rocks just above the pool of the river where he sat,
And on the priest who spent his time in the church plotting and planning.
For Duncan knew,
With an intuition deep within his soul,
Duncan had an inkling of events to come,
And also the feeling it was up to him to stop them,
But how he had no idea.
Today was the Beltane procession,
The ritual at the chapel followed by the lighting of the Beltane fires and finally feasting and merrymaking,
And Duncan had his part to play in it all.
Everyone was expecting him to appear,
As he did at all village rituals throughout the year.
The fool,
The village idiot,
The simpleton whose job it was to make people laugh with his shuffling gait and deep melodic voice,
Little knowing that beneath his antics lay words of wisdom with a deeper meaning than any of them could ever imagine.
The river swirled once more with a life of its own,
Tiny whirlpools forming here and there,
And a froth of white gathering in one particular curve of the riverbank.
Soon the damselflies would be appearing,
Gliding over the surface and alighting on his hands and feet as he fished.
Duncan spent many hours by the riverside,
Fishing,
Thinking and learning.
With his nut brown eyes and dark hair,
Dressed in clothes which subtly merged with the colours of the landscape around him,
And his ability to remain still and silent for hour upon hour,
He learned much of the village people and their affairs without needing to speak to anyone or go anywhere.
Duncan missed nothing,
And it was a mistake for anyone to believe him to be the fool he allowed people to take him for.
Once,
Sitting quietly and looking down at the valley,
He had seen the shape of a great face in the movement of the beech trees,
Swaying in the summer breeze.
The longer Duncan watched,
The more definite it became,
And rather than fade away to a mass of leaves,
The face stayed with him until he himself felt the need to move his aching limbs.
Duncan believed he had seen the green man of the forest,
Spoken of only in legend,
And knew his own spirit also to be a part of the earth itself.
The sound of beating drums and voices raised in song drifted along the valley towards him.
Duncan pulled in his fishing line,
Empty as usual,
And prepared to become another person.
His day had only just begun.
