Chapter 62 Afterwards,
Everything seemed to flow,
Like the river rushing towards the sea,
Clearing all obstacles in its path.
The cycle of the festivals began on St.
Cletha's Feast Day,
4th of November,
And continued on through Midwinter Solstice,
Imbolc,
Spring Equinox,
Beltane,
Midsummer Solstice,
Lammas,
Autumn Equinox,
And back to Samhain,
And St.
Cletha's Feast Day once again.
Each day I arrived early to take time to sit quietly before anyone else arrived,
And always it was special,
Although never quite as poignant as the first.
After Samhain came Midwinter Solstice,
The chapel adorned with holly,
Ivy,
And fir,
The candle's points of light at the darkest time of the year.
Imbolc saw the first snowdrops and a feeling of spring,
Freshness,
And new growth.
At Spring Equinox the chapel was ablaze of yellow daffodils,
And Beltane saw the spring flowers of red campion,
Cowparsley,
Bluebells,
And the scent of the hawthorn blossom throughout the valley.
Midsummer brought tall swaying foxgloves,
Golden buttercups,
Meadowsweet,
And a swathe of greenery,
Followed by the first harvest at Lammas and High Summer,
With purple thistles and swaying grasses.
The Autumn Equinox brought berries,
Fruits,
And seeds,
And then we were back to Samhain,
The close of the Celtic year,
With the autumn leaves,
Lichens,
And twisting branches.
And the cycle began once more.
And people came,
They came to visit the chapel,
To light candles,
And they came to witness the turning of the seasons,
For although there were only six weeks or so between each festival,
The valley changed dramatically as the year progressed,
From the resting of winter,
To the new growth of spring,
The harvest of high summer,
To the fruitfulness of autumn.
At each festival I wrote a short leaflet explaining its significance,
And how it might have been celebrated in times past,
And these eventually came together as a booklet,
The Wheel of the Celtic Year,
A journey through the turning of the seasons and their festivals.
A wide variety of people visited,
From those simply enjoying the peace and beauty of the valley,
To others seeking their own spirituality or religious beliefs.
All were welcome,
For none are wrong,
And everyone of equal importance.
And people helped.
They sponsored slates,
Raised money,
Made donations,
Gave concerts,
Painted fences,
Scrubbed floors,
Cut grass,
And as time progressed I knew the chapel was loved and appreciated by others almost as much as I loved it myself.
In time there was enough money for the roof repairs,
And I finally knew all was safe for another hundred years.
Dan and I were hand-fasted at Beltane,
When the scent of the hawthorn drifted through the valley,
The magical water collected on the day we met upon the altar.
I wore my crown of rowan,
Hawthorn,
Meadowsweet,
Wild roses and honeysuckle,
And I will never forget the moment when a sudden breeze caused the white mayflower blossom to swirl around us like confetti as we stood outside,
The chapel surrounded by our friends.
They were all there of course,
Cornelius and Joan,
The maidens,
Tamsin,
Morwenna,
And Demelza,
And the green knights,
Art,
Will,
Sean,
And Stu,
Accompanied by Lance,
Purse,
And Tristie,
And other travellers we had encountered along the way who felt as deeply about the chapel and found as much beauty in nature as we did.
I suppose you'll be having a pagan or druid to officiate,
Cornelius had commented when we told him of our plans,
But he had been surprised,
And I think quietly pleased,
When we said we would have none but him,
For he had always maintained all religions were simply different paths up the same mountain,
And he was our dearest friend.
Cornelius eventually decided not to sell the farmhouse after all,
But to rent it to Dan and myself,
So Dan could work the land and there would be plenty of room for our growing family,
The new dynasty of Maidens of the Wells,
As he jokingly called them.
And in due course our daughters arrived,
One born at midwinter,
With eyes as grey as the snow-ridden sky,
And hair as black as the raven's wing,
The other at midsummer,
Whose eyes shone with the brilliance of the bluest sky,
And hair as fair as the grasses which rippled gently in the fields.
I knew then our happiness was complete.
This time around we really had done it properly,
And the next generations of Maidens had arrived,
But theirs is another tale to tell,
For the paths of light and darkness seldom run smoothly,
But are ever intertwined and filled with unexpected twists and turns.
There was one last thing to do before I could rest and truly feel I had accomplished all which was required of me.
Interestingly,
The stories of the former guardians of the well had been in my mind ever since I read Rose's writings,
And Dan and I looked at the contents of my box,
Wondering what tales might be held there.
Although I never saw the monk myself,
Nor any of the others,
Except perhaps without realising it,
Their stories called to me,
And the time came when I knew they needed to be brought into the world,
For there is no one guardian of the well but a number,
All who have played their parts for three thousand years and more,
And will continue to do so into the future.
It is not merely the holy wells which should be revered and kept safe,
But all the wild and sacred places which hold the timeless magic so special in the world today,
And so in remembrance of the times I looked into the still clear waters of the holy well and found solace there,
I decided to write Reflections of the Past,
And I did so in the hope that I decided to write Reflections of the Past,
A story of the guardians of the well,
In honour of all those who had passed before me.
