The Last Beltane Wish: A Pagan Tale For Beltane

A tale following Anwyn, who lives in a small village that marks the ancient sacred days. The tale gently unfolds the pagan traditions of Beltane with rich imagery and woven symbolism of sacred union, the bright fire, and the turning wheel. It has a lyrical, cosy tone and honours the deep roots of the season.

Transcript

Hello and welcome to Gentle Time Stories,

A soft space for tales woven with magic,

Nature and holding.

You're welcome to join me for new stories each week.

Always slow,

Always heart-led,

Always gentle.

I'm Bec,

And I thank you so much for being here,

So sit back,

Relax and open your heart to receive.

Hello,

I would love to share this tale with you as a celebration of Belting,

Which is the fire festival and sabbath honoured by followers of the Wheel of the Year.

Before we begin,

I invite you to take a moment to settle in,

Make yourself cosy and notice if you can feel any sensations in your body.

Just doing a gentle scan from head and face,

Down into your shoulders and arms.

What can you feel?

Bringing awareness into your arms and hands,

Your torso,

Back,

Hips,

Legs and feet.

Are your feet touching the floor,

Or what part of your body is touching the surface beneath you?

Letting yourself feel held by the earth,

By my voice and by this beautiful belting story.

The Last Belting Wish In the green,

Quilted valley where the sky dipped to kiss the hills,

There lay a village called Thistlebrook,

Tucked between hawthorn hedges and the soft,

Listening woods.

It was a village of slow seasons and deep memory,

Where the Wheel of the Year still turned with grace and the people marked its eight great spokes with fire,

Feast and song.

Of all these sacred days,

Belting was one of the most radiant.

Belting,

The bright fire,

The threshold between spring and summer,

Was the day the land blushed into full bloom.

The time when the goddess,

Earth in her queen aspect,

And the god,

Sun in his strength,

Met at the height of their power,

Feminine and masculine,

Moon and sun,

Soil and sea.

Not as opposites,

But as lovers,

Equals,

Partners in creation.

It was the celebration of life that is most vibrant,

Of union and fertility,

Of passion and promise,

A time when flame was not destruction but transformation.

And this year,

Little Anwen of Thistlebrook,

With her tangle of red-brown curls and eyes like stormy peat,

Was old enough to make her first belting wish.

Anwen lived with her grandmother,

Nanwen,

The village hearth-keeper and herb-witch,

In a moss-roofed cottage near the Silverbrook.

Nanwen was a keeper of old songs and older silences.

She wore robes of green and gold and walked with a carved ash staff that smelt faintly of sage.

On the eve of belting,

When the sun had just dipped behind the western hills and the first stars winked into the indigo sky,

Nanwen called Anwen to her side.

Tonight,

She said softly,

The veil thins.

Not between worlds of the dead,

As at Samhain,

But between what is and what could be.

Tonight,

Life touches its own deepest root.

She handed Anwen a small woven basket,

Lined with birch bark.

In this,

She said,

You'll place your offering.

Something for each,

Seed for the god,

Bloom for the goddess,

And something of yourself.

Anwen nodded solemnly.

She knew the story,

That on belting morning,

The children of the village walked the spiral path up to Hart Hill,

Where the old wishing tree stood.

A gnarled hawthorn,

White-blossomed and timeless.

There,

Each child left an offering and whispered a wish.

Not a wish for toys or sweets,

But a wish of the spirit.

That night,

Anwen hardly slept.

The air buzzed with the energy of belting's approach.

Somewhere outside,

An owl called once,

Then again.

The brook hummed its silver tune.

And inside her chest,

Her heart thrummed like a distant drum.

At dawn,

Dressed in a robe of soft linen,

Dyed with elderberry and crowned with a circlet of daisy and rowan leaves,

Anwen walked with Nanwen up the winding hill.

The land smelled of morning dew and green shoots,

Wood smoke and blossoms not yet full-opened.

At the top of the hill,

The wishing tree waited,

Its blossoms glowing faintly as if lit from within.

Children knelt in quiet circles,

Placing their offerings in the circle of stones at the tree's feet.

Anwen approached slowly.

Her heart was clear and full.

From her basket she placed a marigold blossom,

Golden and open,

For the goddess.

A chestnut seed,

Smooth and rich,

For the god.

And a strand of her hair,

Braided with red thread and tied with a feather,

For herself.

She pressed both hands to the moss-covered earth and whispered,

Let me feel the place where the powers meet.

Let me walk the spiral where fire dances with flower.

Let me carry the old magic forward.

For a moment,

The air shimmered.

The wind paused,

As if listening.

And somewhere,

Far off,

A lark began to sing.

That afternoon,

The village came alive in full celebration.

The green was hung with garlands,

Ribbons of red and white,

The colours of belting,

Fluttered from doorways.

Children wore flower crowns,

Couples wore rings of ivy or hawthorn at their wrists.

Everywhere was laughter,

Music,

Warmth.

The maple rose tall in the centre of the field,

Its long ribbons like sunbeams.

Young people danced in spirals around it,

Weaving and unweaving the sacred pattern,

A dance older than speech.

Anwen sat in the grass,

Watching the dancers,

Feeling the earth hum beneath her.

Later,

As dusk fell,

The village made its way to the sacred glen,

Where the Beltane fire was to be lit.

Not one,

But two fires were built.

Twin flames,

As tradition held.

One to honour the god,

Bright and bold.

One to honour the goddess,

Deep and enduring.

Between them,

Around a narrow path,

Lined with fresh herbs and ash from last year's fire.

Nanwen stood at the threshold,

Her ash staff glowing faintly with runes.

Beltane is the fire of union,

She called,

Her voice like a bell over water.

Where sun and soil meet,

Where seed awakens and longing becomes life.

Tonight,

We walk between the flames to honour the magic of all things.

People lined up,

Reverent and laughing.

They walked between the fires,

In pairs or alone,

Carrying wishes,

Hopes,

Songs.

Anwen stepped forward.

The heat kissed her skin,

But gently,

As if the fire knew her.

She walked the path between the flames,

And in that moment,

She felt it,

Adjoining.

Masculine and feminine,

Yes,

But also action and rest,

Courage and care,

Root and wing.

It hummed through her like a new heartbeat.

On the far side,

Nanwen waited,

With arms open.

The fire has seen you,

She whispered.

You are kindled now.

That night,

Under stars thick as spilt salt,

The Beltane feast unfurled like a second spring.

There were oatcakes with honey,

Roasted roots,

Cheese wrapped in nettles,

Fresh milk and dandelion wine.

People sang songs that no one remembered learning,

And danced in barefoot spirals until they fell into the grass laughing.

Couples wandered off into the woods.

Some to share secrets.

Some to make promises.

Some to lie beneath the budding trees and become part of the season's dance.

Nanwen sat again by the fire,

Arms wrapped around her knees.

What now?

She asked Nanwen,

Who had joined her.

Now you listen,

Nanwen said.

Handing her a small cup of warm elderflower tea.

Now you listen for what rises.

Beltane is not just fire.

It is hearth.

The place where something begins to grow.

Nanwen sipped her tea.

And her heart answered back.

Long after the embers cooled and the laughter faded into dreams,

Nanwen woke to a deep silence.

And in that silence,

A voice,

Not in her ears,

But in her bones,

Called her name.

She rose barefoot and followed it.

Through the village gate.

Past the maypole.

Up the spiral path of hard hill.

The wishing tree waited,

Its blossoms softly glowing.

And beneath it stood two beings.

The goddess,

Tall and robed in moonlight,

Her hair woven with vines,

Her eyes endless as oceans.

And the god,

Clothed in golden bark and flame with antlers that held the stars in a smile like dawn.

They spoke as one,

Without mouths.

You wished to feel the place where the powers meet.

Nanwen nodded.

Then feel,

Said the goddess.

Then remember,

Said the god.

They held out their hands.

Between them burned a single seed.

It flickered,

Red and white.

Gold and green.

Alive with every season.

This,

Said the goddess,

Is the seed of balance.

This,

Said the god,

Is the fire that does not consume.

When you are ready,

They said together,

Plant it and the dance shall begin again.

Nanwen reached out and the seed fell into her hand.

It was warm and inside it,

Something stirred.

Seasons passed.

The wheel turned.

Nanwen grew in height and wisdom.

She learned the crafts of weaving and healing.

She sang to bees.

She gathered dew on Beltane morning to wash her face.

She listened to the whispers of ash trees and cradled birds that had fallen from their nests.

And when the last frost melted and the land turned its face to the sun once more,

She climbed Heart Hill and planted the seed.

She dug with bare hands,

Sang to the soil,

Watered it with melted snow and a drop of her own blood.

And she waited.

At next Beltane,

A new sapling stood beside the wishing tree.

Its leaves shimmered,

Some silver-white,

Some green-gold,

And some a red so deep they seemed to pulse with the light.

It was called the Union Tree.

The people of Thistlebrook came to revere it.

They laid offerings at its roots,

Danced around it before leaping the Beltane fires,

Sat beneath it to propose marriage or speak truth or seek balance.

And the fire has never gone out.

It lives now in the Union Tree,

And the ones who still walk the path beneath the flames,

And in Anwen,

Who became a wise woman,

And then an elder,

And then a story herself.

They say that on Beltane night,

If you walk up Heart Hill and sit between the two trees,

You might feel it,

The sacred dance,

The bright fire,

The old wish still echoing.

The End

Reviews

Another lovely, gentle story. Perfect for the end of the day.