Bedtime Story: Reflections Of The Past: Fire: Chapter 21
Relax into your evening, or fall asleep, to this recording of the twenty-first 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
CHAPTER XXI The villagers were understandably proud of their church,
With its newly built tower,
And felt a certain satisfaction on seeing it,
But they were inordinately pleased with the work which had been carried out at the little chapel,
Further along the valley.
Everyone lent a hand,
From the smallest child to the strongest labourer and most skilled craftsman,
And now the time had arrived for the first festival since its renovation,
And the Maidens of the Wells were gathering from all around.
It was an auspicious day indeed.
Although the chapel was now larger,
There was scant room for more inside than Rosinwen and her Maidens,
So the people gathered outside,
In the little enclosure,
To take part in the ceremony as best they could.
Following the ritual,
The Maidens would fill their chalices from the sacred well,
Offering sustenance to the people before the lighting of the Beltane fires and the feasting and merrymaking.
Inside the chapel,
The sacred water ran in a steady flow behind the altar,
Over the relics of St Clodorus,
And into the well at the other side.
Rosinwen had spent many hours sitting quietly,
Listening to the trickle of the water which,
At times,
Sounded like the lightest and most delicate of music,
At others a symphony of birdsong.
She felt the magic in the entwining of stone and water,
And Duncan agreed when she broached the thought to him.
Always look to nature for your answers,
He replied in his slow,
Deep voice.
Look at the marriage of water and stone around you,
In the fast-flowing river and the sunlight on the rocks,
The way the water wears away stone,
Yet pebbles direct the flow.
And they sat for long moments in quiet contemplation,
Each understanding the other perfectly.
Now the chapel had been dressed with the flowers and greenery of the season.
Beneath the tall windows,
Shot with sunlight and lighting the altar with a thousand tiny sparks,
Stood branches of hawthorn and flowers of mayblossom,
Beautiful in the morning sunshine,
Reflecting the circlets upon the heads of the maidens.
Tall white candles were placed all around,
And the green spring foliage gave the chapel an air of cool tranquillity.
The doors had been left open,
And for some time Rosinwen and the maidens sang enchanted songs to the Beltane energies,
To the Goddess,
Who at this time of the year blessed the fertility of the crops and the people for the year ahead.
As High Priestess,
Rosinwen was expected to fall into a trance and deliver an oracle to the villagers.
Indeed,
All of the Maidens of the Wells possessed such skills,
Which they used almost every day of their lives.
As the chanting rose to a crescendo,
Rosinwen found herself slipping from reality.
She had performed this so often it was now second nature to her,
As she trusted in the wisdom and intuition deep inside to deliver the right message to help the villagers in whatever way was necessary.
Rosinwen drew a deep breath.
Rosinwen drew a deep breath.
Heed my words,
My children,
She began,
And a hush descended inside the chapel,
Until the only sounds to be heard were the call of a robin outside and the occasional croak of a raven overhead.
The air was filled with the fragrance of smouldering herbs,
Their perfume reminiscent of the sweetness of new rain and the freshness of the first spring flowers.
The Maidens knelt,
Heads bowed in reverence,
Waiting for the signal to proceed from the chapel to the Sacred Well to fill their chalices and present them to the people waiting outside.
Rosinwen cleared her throat.
If truth be told,
She usually had a vague idea of her words beforehand,
Seeing it as part of her duty to guide the villagers to the best of her ability.
Duncan,
Seen by most to be the simpleton of the village,
Was often able to give an indication to help her deliver the best possible advice.
She had planned to speak of the importance of the well and the chapel,
And the balancing of the chapel and the village church over which Father Christopher presided.
Duncan warned her on more than one occasion of his plotting and planning,
And Rosinwen knew that unless a balance was found,
Ill-feeling would prevail.
But when she drew a breath and opened her mouth to speak,
The words which came out were not those she had expected.
Today,
She began,
On this Beltane morn,
I bring you a warning.
There was a slight stir,
But the Maidens had been well trained and remained quiet,
Revering their High Priestess's every word.
Without the Maidens of the Wells,
The land will become a wasteland.
Rosinwen paused,
And it was as if the chapel itself held its breath.
I call upon you,
Maidens of the Wells,
To take care,
She continued.
Be on your guards,
And above all,
Trust no one.
There was silence.
No robin sang,
And only the rustle of the wind could be heard as a short,
Sharp breeze scurried around the chapel,
Swiftly brushing the flowers in the headdresses of the Maidens,
Before hurrying on its way and lifting Rosinwen from her trance.
She blinked,
Unsure of exactly what had happened.
For the first time in her life,
She heard the words which had haunted her spoken aloud,
And realised with a growing horror that,
Although the voice in her head always belonged to someone else,
The voice which finally uttered them was her own.
A cloud must have passed before the sun,
For the candlelight swayed and flickered amongst the greenery and spring flowers which ordained the chapel,
Giving the illusion of a dim winter's day,
With everything closing into darkness,
Rather than the beginning of spring.
Then,
All at once,
The sun appeared once more and the chapel was flooded with light.
There was a collective sigh of relief as hope returned,
And for an instant Rosinwen's words were but a memory,
A passing shadow within the beauty of the surroundings.
But in truth,
They would never be forgotten by anyone who heard them.
Rosinwen rose,
Lifted the silver chalice from the altar and walked to the doorway.
The Maidens fell into line behind her,
And as she stepped outside,
Felt the warmth of the spring sunshine on her face.
The golden gorse shone from the pinnacle of rock before her,
And the words receded into the darkest corner of her mind.
Almost,
But not quite,
For despite the beauty of the day,
There was a heaviness in her heart,
As she led the Maidens three times around the chapel,
Before pausing at the sacred well to fill her chalice with its refreshing water.
As they walked,
There was a hush in the air,
Broken only by birdsong and the rushing of the river in the distance.
Rosinwen knelt at the edge of the well,
But just before her silver chalice broke the clear surface of the water,
She caught a glimpse of another face,
Gazing back at her.
She paused,
Body still,
As,
Through years of practice,
She allowed the vision to sharpen and define.
She saw faces,
Eyes wild with anguish,
Crying for help,
Hands reaching towards her from the depths of the well,
Which had all at once become murky,
Rather than running pure and clear.
She heard cries in her mind which mingled with the sudden call of two ravens overhead,
Their croaks harsh against the softness of the previous birdsong.
Without the Maidens of the wells,
The land will become a wasteland.
Yet again,
The words whispered inside her head,
And then she saw the final vision of a face streaming with tears and twisted in despair,
And the face was her own.
Afterwards,
Rosinwen never quite knew how she managed to continue with the ritual.
But somehow touched the surface of the water with her chalice,
And the well returned to its clear,
Pure state once again,
After which she walked to the front of the chapel,
The Maidens repeating her actions and following in her footsteps.
Rosinwen held her chalice high,
A replica of her personal ritual earlier in the day,
Symbolising the union of earth and water,
And its sparkled silver in the sunlight.
She took a moment to glance at her Maidens,
And felt a momentary pride both in their beauty,
Their beliefs and their work in the world.
Then,
With the inclination of her head they had all been waiting for,
The Maidens walked amongst the villagers,
Ensuring each one drank the sacred waters from one of the chalices,
Bestowing blessings for the coming year as they did so.
As the ritual drew to a close,
The festivities of the day began.
The lighting of the Beltane fires,
Between which cattle would be driven,
A ritual which stretched back as far as could be remembered,
Followed by feasting,
Merrymaking,
And a night during which fertility rites abounded.
Rosinwen moved away from the throng.
She was tired and her duties were,
For the moment,
Over.
As she rested in the shade of the Hawthorn tree,
Heavy with the blossom of the Mayflower,
She realised not everyone had taken part in the ritual after all.
Two other figures stood,
Silent and alone,
At different points of the valley.
One,
A man in stark black,
Could be seen in the direction of the church,
Which she instantly recognised as Father Christopher.
The other stood beside a horse across the river,
And she thought he wore a white tunic,
With a red and gold emblem upon it.
Attuned as she was to the energy within the earth and the sky,
Rosinwen was aware the attention of both figures was upon her.
From one,
She could feel such black hatred,
As she knew she would not be alone.
And from the other,
The most strange and enduring love,
Which caused her heart to feel as if it might break into a thousand pieces.
