Bedtime Story: Reflections Of The Past: Water: Chapter 31

Relax into your evening, or fall asleep, to this recording of the thirty-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 Mikhail Nilov

Transcript

Chapter 31 The first time it happened, Rose had performed her ritual, And was sitting in a peaceful and meditative frame of mind beside the granite altar. The moon was waning, The time for casting banishing spells, To rid villagers of cases of warts, Ringworm or anything unwanted. Davey kept watch as usual, But on this particular evening soon disappeared due to other nocturnal activities requiring his attention, And Rose elected to sit for a while in the diminishing moonlight. Don't worry, I'll be fine, She assured him as he left. Although the days were drawing in, And there was an autumnal nip in the air, It was not cold. The night was still, And a feeling of peace permeated the valley. Rose sat quietly, Thankful to be away from Jory snoring, Even secretly glad Davey had left. She realised how little time she spent alone, Being either in the company of Jory, Charles or Davey, Not to mention the villagers who sought her help and guidance in one form or another. Rose sighed heavily. She was tired, And not simply due to her everyday work. There was a weariness in her spirit, As well as her bones. She sank onto a fallen stone and rested her back against the tumbled wall of the chapel, Brushing away the worries of the day as drowsiness began to overtake her, And soon her eyes closed. When she opened them, Rose thought she must be dreaming, For this was no place she had ever seen before. First of all, There was a pool, And all around the world glimmered with snow. A great white owl perched on the branch of a massive tree, And a girl gazed into the depths of the shifting water. Then as swiftly as it had appeared, The scene changed. It was springtime, And she saw a young woman, Dark hair in a plait, And braided with flowers, Bending over what appeared to be an ancient book laid open upon the stone altar. Then a change, A larger building, And a woman with hair piled high upon her head, Attended by young girls, Circlets of mayflowers upon their heads, And carrying silver chalices. Rose opened her eyes, Clawed back to the present by the hoot of an owl, And a scurrying in the undergrowth. She felt disorientated, Dizzy. Then it was upon her again, And she was in the same building, Yet different. The altar was still in place, And the chapel rebuilt, At times silent and peaceful, At other times filled with candlelight and laughter. She saw men and women in a circle, Singing, Chanting, Drumming in the moonlight, Others taking mass or sitting in peaceful solitude, Surveying the valley from a wooden bench beneath a rowan tree. Yet more knelt beside the holy well, Its water running clear and pure, Giving thanks, Saying prayers, And leaving offerings. And finally she saw two people surveying the valley, Their hands bound together, A feeling of joy and love in the air. The woman was dressed in a long flowing gown, A crown of flowers upon her head, And it was a woman she recognised, Yet did not know. A woman with a look of herself about her, And yet was no one she had ever seen before. The man beside her she recognised too, In the darkness of his hair, And the love and gentleness in his eyes, And a sudden breeze caused the hawthorn blossom to shed its petals, Which swirled around them like confetti. She was jerked back to the present. The waning moon had moved across the sky, And she realised just how long she must have been sitting there. Her limbs were stiff and chilled, And it took a moment to remember where she was, And, More worryingly, Who she was. For no more than a few seconds, But which seemed to stretch into eternity, She was unable to recall her name or her place in life. One moment she was a girl in the snow, Feeling its icy chill upon her face, The next a young woman, The scent of springtime around her, And then, Her mind groped for a fast fading image, Akin to an elusive dream, As consciousness returned. It was more of a feeling, Perhaps, Which settled somewhere in the centre of her chest, And as it grew, She recognised desolation, Loneliness and longing. Without the maidens of the wells, The land will become a wasteland. The words echoed through Rose's mind, Unbidden, Like the chill wind on a winter's night. Without the maidens of the wells, The land will become a wasteland. Again, Rose wrapped her arms around her cold body and struggled to her feet. Around her, The tumbled masonry gleamed in the dim light of the waning moon, The holy water trickled slowly, Wending its erratic path down the slope to the river, Pooling into bog and mud, Here and there, Yet with an underlying freshness and purity which never failed. Gathering her senses, Rose looked around, Seeing the chapel and holy waters as if for the first time, A lonely, Forgotten place, Which had been allowed to fall into disrepair and become covered in brambles. She felt the prick of tears, So beautiful, Yet so sad, But she was a woman of few means, Not even knowing who the building belonged to. The church, She supposed, Although the thought of questioning Jory about repairing the chapel filled her with despair, For as far as he was concerned, The church itself was the primary place of worship, And nowhere else. Rose sighed, Defeated. Without the Maidens of the Wells, The land will become a wasteland. There it was again, Softer now, Fading, Yet those were words she would never forget. Who were these Maidens of the Wells, She wondered? What had happened to them, And where were they now? A memory tugged at the back of Rose's mind, No more than a shade of shadow, A passing fragment of thought to which she clung, Nurturing each colour and movement, Allowing it to grow until it finally became whole, A tale her grandmother had told of the holy wells and Maidens who tended them, And something about disappearing. There was more, As the images flew through her mind, Rose became aware she had known the woman in the vision before. The girl, The young woman, The lady with the chalice, All stories heard at her grandmother's knee, And which she intrinsically felt to be a part of herself. And then it happened, The thought, The knowledge, The absolute certainty that she, Rose, Was the latest in this line of women, And had a greater place in the scheme of things than practising her simple magic. For this was her place, A part of her very soul, And she knew that if no one else cared, If no one else would do anything to save it, She would. Rose drew a deep breath, Suddenly exhausted, As she often felt of late, An aching tiredness behind her eyes, Yet refreshed within. This was her time. She looked about her as so many women had before, Feeling the long line of her ancestry stretching back in time, Allowing the strength of the women of the past to move into her, No longer alone. Rose noted the waning of the moon and the year reflected the lessening of love and energy the little chapel and holy waters received, Despite the fact the spring trickled staunchly onwards, Hidden by mud and bog, Yet still there. Her thoughts returned to Drury, The parish church, Back to the ruined chapel. There was a balance required in all things, In religion, Beliefs, Masculine and feminine, Man's belief and worship in God, The acknowledgement of the lost maidens, And all they stood for. Rose raised her face to the moon, Pulled back her shoulders and drew a deep breath of cool night air. Her time had come and she knew what she must do.