Bedtime Story: Reflections Of The Past: Fire: Chapter 28
Relax into your evening, or fall asleep, to this recording of the twenty-eighth 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 XXVIII LAMAS It was the talk of the countryside for a long,
Long time.
Almost everyone had their own tale to tell of the night the high priestess and the remaining maidens of the wells disappeared.
And what was more,
Before the very eyes of a band of knights,
Who had been reduced to quivering wrecks by the fact the women they were paid to dispose of had,
Quite simply,
Vanished before their very eyes.
Questions were naturally asked,
The truth inevitably coming to the surface,
And Father Christopher found some explanations were necessary.
One good outcome was that the men in question,
Disturbed by their experience,
Threw down their swords and vowed to join Justin in his search for the truth,
Forming a band of knights which,
In time,
Became known far and wide for their chivalry,
Justice and honesty.
But theirs is yet another tale to tell.
Over the years the story was recounted so often it lived on for centuries,
Added to the story of the girl who killed an evil magician for her guardianship of the well,
And that of the young woman who fought the new religion and restored the well to the care of the women of the village.
These stories were handed down through the generations,
Related to wide-eyed children around the hearth on cold winter evenings,
And even continued to send a shiver of fear through many adults.
Following the initial furor,
No more fingers were pointed,
And the whispers fell silent.
If such a thing could happen to those so highly revered in the community,
Then no one was safe,
And the villagers swiftly turned their attention to their work,
Kept their heads down,
And said nothing.
But the fact remained that their high priestess and the maidens had vanished,
And no one knew where they had gone.
What would happen now?
Justin had taken pains to discover exactly what had occurred whilst he was intent upon his vigil.
He cursed himself to Hellensback a thousand times for following his duty rather than his instinct,
His heart,
When he heard the tormented cries in the night.
Why,
He asked himself,
Had he not thrown duty to the winds and rushed to Rosenwind's rescue?
Now he had to rely on other people to relate what they had seen,
And there was always the question in their eyes,
If not on their lips,
As to why he was not there himself.
It appeared,
When Justin pieced together the numerous accounts,
Already conflicting and some taking on supernatural proportions,
That Rosenwind and the maidens began the ceremony of the full moon,
As planned,
On the highest cliff above the chapel,
A spot they often used at such times.
They proceeded up the winding path to where a circle of stones and a small altar were in place.
Rosenwind often performed ceremonies at different locations throughout the valley,
For she believed everywhere to be worthy of reverence,
Not just the location of the chapel and sacred well.
And so,
As the moon rose to her heights,
And Rosenwind and the maidens began to sing,
A strange occurrence had taken place.
Slowly,
Very slowly,
It was as if a shadow began to cover the face of the moon,
And as it progressed the silver of the night dimmed,
Turning the shining orb from full,
To half,
To no moon at all.
But rather than the blackness of the night sky,
Pinpricked with stars,
All that could be seen was a bloody smudge in the sky,
Which washed the valley in red.
And every single person to which Justin spoke,
Told of the feeling of desolation which pierced their hearts.
The women had fallen silent at the point when the red and black of the night was at its height.
A single cry rang from the clifftop,
Echoing around the valley,
Almost immediately followed by another,
And another,
Until a cacophony of notes filled the night sky,
Blending together into a strange symphony,
Beautiful and terrible all at the same time.
The voices echoed up the valley,
Rooting the villagers to the spot,
And then they ceased as suddenly as they began.
The beautiful voices raised in unison one final time,
Only to be extinguished one by one,
Until Rosinwen sang alone,
Then her voice too died away into the silence.
As the villagers ran towards the clifftop,
Only to discover a confused and terrified band of knights riding in a disorientated fashion around the little altar,
The sky began to change once more.
The blood-red of the moon started to lighten,
And over the course of the night returned to normal.
But of Rosinwen and her maidens there was no sign.
All anyone could remember was the strong scent of meadowsweet hanging heavy on the night air.
The year turned,
And it was Lammas.
The leaves upon the oak,
Rowan and hawthorn were turning brown and shriveling in the heart of the sun,
The swallows preparing to leave earlier than usual,
But there was no denying the fact they were about to take flight.
You are the only person who can find them.
The words of this impotent,
Duncan,
Repeated themselves in Justin's head so often,
That eventually,
Being unable to make sense of any of it,
He searched Duncan out,
Finding him as usual,
Fishing by the river,
Shaded from the unnatural heat by the cool leaves of the willows.
Even these,
Justin noticed,
Were beginning to turn a pale yellow sickly colour,
As if they could not gain enough nourishment from the ground or the water itself.
I have a question,
Stated Justin.
Confronted by the sight of Duncan calmly fishing in the midst of such tragedy,
He was overcome with anger and appeared abrupt and rude.
Duncan stretched his leg to ease the pain,
And settled himself more comfortably.
To ask is the only way to receive the answer,
He commented slowly,
Tweaking on his line.
Justin opened his mouth to form a stinging reply,
Then all the frustration left him,
And he sank down beside Duncan,
Lingering weary and defeated.
You said on the night when,
The terrible night,
I was the only person who could find Rosenwin and the maidens.
Duncan continued to fish silently.
A bubble rose to the surface of the water.
A small fish jumped and snapped at a hovering fly.
Can you tell me how?
Continued Justin.
Can you tell me why?
Duncan tweaked on his line.
The whole picture is not for you to see,
He began,
In his slow deep tone.
There are pieces here and others there.
Some are lost in the mists of time and have their roots in other lives.
Yet more cannot be found until many lifetimes have passed.
But be assured,
You are a part of the great pattern,
The web of life,
And the moment will come when you will again have your chance to save the Lady Rosenwin and the vanished maidens.
He paused for a long while,
And,
Just as Justin thought he had finished speaking,
Continued once more in this slow melodic voice which had caused Justin to dub him a simpleton.
Remember two things,
My friend.
Firstly,
Without the maidens of the wells,
The land will become a wasteland.
And secondly,
Although things are not visible,
It does not mean they do not exist.
They might simply be out of sight.
A cluster of bubbles rose to the surface of the water,
Swirled and were swept away.
Duncan tugged on his line and hoisted a wriggling trout into the air,
Shining in a rainbow of colour.
He nodded in satisfaction,
Then tossed it back in,
And Justin knew his audience to be over.
A damselfly pitched briefly upon a delicate circlet of meadowsweet which floated gently down the river,
Before slowly sinking beneath the surface of the water without a trace.
Thank you.
He stood,
Clasped Duncan's arm briefly,
And walked away,
Back to the empty chapel,
Bare now,
With no flowers or foliage to decorate it,
And the sacred well which had taken on a murky look in its unusually clear depths.
As he walked,
He realised the land was badly scorched in the summer heat,
The green of the valley turning to a sickly orange in places,
The heads of plants wilting in the midday sun.
Justin stood before the sacred well,
And taking the sparkling green and violet crystal which Rosenwin had entrusted into his care,
Let it fall into the water,
Now still and stagnant,
Where it at once disappeared into the murky depths and was lost from sight.
He sighed,
Wondering at the significance of the crystal,
Which seemed to have played no part in events at all,
Then turned and nodded to his band of knights,
Who waited,
Saddled and ready,
To follow him on his journey.
Perhaps,
Thought Justin fleetingly,
The only good thing to have come of the whole sorry business.
As he shook the bridle and began to move away,
Giving one backward glance at the valley,
So recently green with the hope of spring,
Now sickly and diseased,
Two thoughts came into his mind.
Firstly,
His quest would not be over for a very long time yet.
And secondly,
The simpleton,
Duncan,
Was nowhere near as simple as he had first assumed.
