Marei - book one. Part one: the call. Chapter 1

I know now that I am not responsible for the death of the Christ. But it still haunts me, even now, years from that cave. Years from him and a million mind’s miles.

The songs he sang still linger in my memories. Outside of this nomadic village where I lay, the sound of the dancing drums pulses above the sound of the swamp behind. The wind falls into memories of his face and whispers of his hair. The reeds rattle like the thousand stomping feet of the girls from the village singing. Still singing the ancient songs. The ones that the Christ used to sing to me on the full moon in Spring when fires raged in the thoughts of the old nomads still wandering far from where they began.

I am still wandering. But closer now to where it truly began for me. The tree beyond is the one I would swing from when first I was able to wander from beneath my mother’s eye. And that pile of stones the chimney of the grass and sod hut we had lived in; my parents, my brothers, my sisters and I. For years we lived there. But look at the Earth now, how it has swallowed up nearly all of its’ children’s attempts to claim it. Save for this pile of rocks, left topside to be strewn by the winds’ valiant pushes in the tempestuous Autumns. My father would call those storms “them when the wind tells jokes fit to make the very Earth laugh.” We never laughed, though, when those storms came tearing through.

I am dying. Too old now to wander, carrying this; my personal burden of guilty love and shame. I am ready to meet him, whether it be in a place called Heaven or simply another chance at Heaven while on Earth. Purple thistles wave in the wind of the coming storm. As twilight falls, so will I; laying down at long last my sore soul to meld and merge with the rich dirt beneath my feet.

I have come full circle, to finally end where even I, once innocent, began.






Part One: The Call




“Go.”

The voice left little room for disobedience. Rarely does the Goddess speak to one so young especially since there were five elders in the village where I was being raised, and I was only beginning my training for the invocation ceremonies. But the voice in my head commanded again: “GO.” Softer this time, but still the silvered leaves on the trees around me shivered, all at once, with the whisper of her voice as it escaped the inner chamber of my ear on the wind’s prying fingers.

“Go where?” I questioned, turning around on my heels, looking up at the empty blue sky through the circular opening in the grove’s canopy.

“go…” Her voice whispered again, carried away on the wind before I had a chance to get the answers I felt I needed. Feeling very small and alone, as a child lost in a crowd of revelers, I laid down on the sun warmed earth.

Closing my eyes, I could feel the sun touching my skin, the wind playing gently with the tendrils of my long brown hair, and the earth pulsing gently beneath me. The travelling wise men and women who visited and stayed in my family’s home claimed the earth was round, and that it spun like an acorn top all day, circling the sun. In moments like this as I struggled to remain still enough to hear that voice again I could almost believe their claims. Certainly I could feel the earth spinning beneath me as I laid there, making a star with my young, spindly body.

I strained and strained to hear the voice again, reaching with my whole being into the swirling eddies of my unconscious, trying to feel which way I should go, struggling to hear her voice again though it was forever imprinted on my mind’s ear. I could feel only distance, hear only my own ragged breaths, sense only the pressure of my own heartbeat and I strove to still those quiet sensations too until, dizzy with trying, I finally spun off the face of the Earth and into unconsciousness.

As the darkness faded, turning first indigo, then swimming rapidly through stages of purple, pink, orange and finally to a pale sky blue, I began to see shapes around me. Figures shaped like people wandered in a seemingly aimless pattern, like snowflakes in the wind. Beneath me there was nothing, no Earth, no clouds, only the vast emptiness of a completely circular sky in which I was the Earth.

Hurtling through the sky at me was a tiny speck, my own satellite; spinning in its own wide arc as it encircled me, glowing orange and pulsing. I reached out my hand and plucked it from the air. Without knowing why, I popped it into my mouth and bit down on the hard shell of the seed. Warm red juices like fresh blood after a kill burst forth from the seed into my mouth but instead of being repulsed, I felt as if I had hungered and thirsted for this taste for all of my incarnations.

Savoring the flavor, I chewed the seed and swallowed it. When it reached my stomach it began to grow, filling first my stomach, then pushing aside my lungs and my intestines as it fought for space inside a mortal shell that was already inhabited. I struggled to breathe. My legs became numb and would not move. My throat refused to obey me and as my lungs were compressed each breath became more shallow, less sustaining until I was gasping frantically for air.

I looked down at my torso and began to cry, cold, black tears coursing down my face and staining my dress. The seams of the dress were bulging, straining as the seed that had taken route within me grew larger and larger, threatening to burst open my very skin. I put my hands on my stomach and for a moment I tried to hold my skin together, thinking that I might be strong enough to stop the spread of the magick seed that grew within me.

With a cry of release and captivity, of pain and pleasure I gave up trying to stem the tide of growth that had begun. I pierced my swollen flesh with my fingers and tore apart my sternum, ripping myself open to the pelvis to let the seed break free. Instead of blood at the fissures of my flesh, cold ocean water poured forth from me like from a dam breaking.

A head emerged from within me, long brown hair plaited in braids to keep it from tangling. She was young and wore a crown of purple thistle flowers on her head. Stepping out of my skin, she turned and reached inside me, where I lay discarded on the ground. Her small white hand guided another head from within my carcass. This one was a horse, brown with a white spot shaped like a six pointed star on her head. I knew it to be a mare though I could not have seen the body. With a whistle, the girl called the horse to trot out of my shell. She swung herself up bare backed on the mare and it reared and whinnied before it turned into the now setting sun and galloped off into the distance. Thistle Flower of the Mares…….

The day light faded, back into orange, pink, purple, indigo and finally again to black where I remained floating and opened to the elements for minutes that seemed like lifetimes.

The insistent call of a blue jay woke me from where I lay, now curled into a crescent shape on the ground in the sacred grove where I had been gathering herbs just a few minutes ago. My head was swimming and yet I felt a peace that I had never known before. I still did not know where I was supposed to go, but I would start by going home and from there I would do what I could to fulfill the commandment that the Goddess had laid upon me.

My mother had prepared a traveling bag for me and was waiting when I returned to consciousness and made my way along the well worn path back to the sod and wood hut that housed my family. Grandmother had called to my mother in a dream last night, telling her to send me to her to start my training immediately. Mother sent with me a hunting knife, a woven blanket died with berries to be a festive red, a loaf of bread, several tart apples, a water skin made from the cow’s udder, and a bow with a full quiver of arrows. More than that I could not carry by myself and walk that great a distance. We had no money for a donkey and my Grandmother’s house was many leagues to the South East.

My Grandmother lived far across the island, by the sheer white cliffs that fell away into the long deep water of salt. It was there I was to travel, alone. The journey would take my feet a full five weeks time, if I walked into the darkening night and only rested in the witching hours. But I was not afraid of the witching hours. I was to become a druid.

I was not afraid, not then – though had I known what lay in store for me I would have carefully considered running away from that cruel fate. Instead this was a grand adventure the likes of which I had listened to at the knees of the traveling bards and druids and day-dreamed about as I did my daily chores. To be called by the Goddess to walk the Path was the way most epic tales began and the adventures within could only be coming for me. I was too young then to know that adventures can only be had with significant danger and risk to body, heart and even soul. To hear the tales spun by fire light, those brave men and women, Gods and Goddesses were never frightened by the situations which their fates chose to throw in their paths for challenges. They welcomed the challenges and were rarely disheartened. At that young age, I was a worthy subject for such a tale. I rallied to my personal challenge and cheerfully bid my family good bye neither knowing nor considering that I might not see them again. That I might not even survive this first leg of the journey. I had faith that I would survive and thrive and that my legend would someday be sung beneath the crisp Autumn stars to the waiting ears of a village worth of small children.

The first leg of my journey I met daily with a smile, breathing in the fresh crisp air of the first turn from Summer to Autumn. The days were warm and mostly sun filled and the walking was pleasant with food enough in my pack to keep me from feeling the pangs of hunger. I rarely stopped except to refill my water skin or to take apples or bread from my pack. I was aflame and the world was crystal clear, my vision sharper than it had ever been before.

And the nights – ah! The nights were glorious sparkling wonderment and left me excited at the prospect of my new training and the potential that my life now held. I was intoxicated by the possibilities and spent endless hours when I should have been resting creating new myths and legends in which I, a victorious woman of Power, was the central character.

How often during that first week did I lay awake at night, calves and shins still warm from the perpetual movement from the day, and stare up at the sky. Watch the moon make her ascent and turn from the rising crescent to the half moon. More than once I considered picking up my pack and continuing onward by night, just to be that many steps closer to my destiny. Usually my tired feet would begin the assault and as my mind continued to traipse off into the imagined paths of adventure, the satisfied exhaustion from a busy day would soothe me to slumber.

If only the entire trip could have remained as idealistically spotless as those first five days! But then again, as I was starting to learn, you can’t have an adventure without hardship to overcome. Days of endless pleasure don’t make fine stories and five days into my journey, the true adventure began.

The food my mother had lovingly packed ran out with both the good weather and the strength in my feet. Calluses that had been strong enough on the softer grass of home as I ran shorter errands cracked, blistered and bled as I continued slogging through the rapidly dampening ground during the first day of the downpour. The days that had been full of the warm promise of easy travel became endless dripping hours of trudging. And the nights that had been so captivating became cold and desolate as I shivered instead of sleeping, unwarmed by the sodden blanket.

For the first time I felt afraid that I would not be able to complete the task ahead of me and I despaired in the dark hours that seemed to stretch out infinitely in the moments just before dawn. But no sun was to greet me that next morning, or for several mornings there after. Exhausted from another night of shivering in the growing chill of Autumn, I finally slept curled into a small ball with my pack under my head and my sodden blanket over my face, sheltered by a bush that shielded me from all but the heaviest rains.

I fell immediately into a deep sleep and dreamt of a long path that always seemed to be headed up a gray and rock strewn hill. Looking down at my feet, I was horrified to see that they had been cut off and were only bloody stubs, leaving a trail of rounded gore behind me on the never ending uphill climb.

When I woke it must have been mid day, though the clouds obscured any chance of telling the time by the sun’s position. For a moment after waking I was full of life and vigor again, hopeful and ready to set out on a new day. Then the reality of my precarious position washed over me as I awakened fully and felt my still throbbing feet complain bitterly about their treatment.

There under the bushes I sat and cried, my hot tears mingling with the cold rain water that dripped off my nose and onto the wet earth beneath me. I wanted to go home. I was done with adventuring, done with trying to persevere on a path that now I was not sure I wanted. Why couldn’t Grandmother have sent a donkey for me? Or come to my house where I could still be taken care of by my mother? Why was I called to go to her, when I wasn’t even strong enough to make one simple journey.

All of a sudden the enormity of this journey stretched out before me – I had only been walking for six days. Six days out of thirty five or forty. Not even enough time for the moon to complete a quarter of its cycle from circle to darkness and back again and here I was defeated by my lack of strength. How was I to be strong enough for this pilgrimage? And if I was not strong enough for this pilgrimage, how would I ever survive the rigorous initiations that the traveling druids hinted at? My aching feet refused to walk another step. When I tried to stand and move forward they betrayed me and dumped me back on the wet ground.

I wanted to go home, or if that was not possible, have someone come to rescue me. I wanted my mother, my brothers, my warm pallet in the sleeping room. I wrapped my still wet blanket around me and huddled into it. The small amount of light from the day shone through the fabric and enveloped me in a dark redness as I were in a womb, but a cold womb devoid of life, and I sobbed until I slept again.

This time when I woke the rain had slowed almost to a stop and fog had rolled in, covering the landscape until it was unrecognizable. With the obscurity the fog brought a modicum of warmth. My feet were still sore but no longer bleeding and I curled myself back into my tunnel of almost warmth and semi dryness to think.

I knew I could not continue as I had been and now was the time for me to make a decision. This was the turning point on the earliest of all my chances to back away from my destiny. I carefully considered heading back to the safety and security of the house in which I had spent the last 12 years. I would not be ridiculed for returning, but neither would I be respected as I wanted to be for that decision. If I returned home, I could live out my life as the rest of the village did, working in the fields and tending to the hearth and home. I could marry if I found someone who would take me, and raise children, live to an old age in relative comfort. Home was only a week’s walk away, and there I could find food, shelter and companionship.

My Grandmother’s house was another 4 weeks away, at the least. I was without food and without shelter from the inclement weather. My feet were tired and sore and I didn’t know if I could endure walking on them for very long at all, let alone for another full cycle of the moon.

I knew with every ounce of my logical being that turning around and heading back into the familiar life of my childhood was the only sensible decision to be made. To continue meant no guarantee for my safety or even my life. And yet I hesitated to turn back. From my earliest memories I had waited for the arrival of the wandering minstrels and druids to hear their songs and I would sit with them as long as my mother would let me, just to listen to what they said and how they talked to each other. I had always been certain that they knew things that I didn’t know, that many people didn’t know. I yearned to have those mysteries revealed to me, to see what they saw mapped on the stars, to read the turning of the leaves and to walk unannounced but appreciated into any village on the island.

There was a hunger inside me that reached far beyond my rumbling belly and deep into my soul. Yes, I could go back to the village of my childhood and I might even achieve happiness there – but would I ever be truly satisfied with that life?

Turning my mind to the possibilities of continuing the trip, though it went against all rational thought, I breathed deeply in the darkening evening. I could continue. Rain wasn’t going to kill me, though it would be uncomfortable. I could wear my blanket like a cloak to stave off the worst of the winds and storms. I had a hunting knife and my bow and though I was far from the most accomplished hunter in the village, like every child I could kill a bird or a rabbit if needed. And from necessity I knew how to skin, dress and cook the animal after it was dead, so if I was careful and stealthy, I would not starve. I knew how to recognize clean water and could fashion a shelter from branches if need be.

The remainder of the trip would be far from easy or comfortable but my mother’s words to me when I was fighting with my younger sister rang again in my memory. “Marei, when you look back on your life in 10 years, will this one moment be remembered in the face of all your other experiences? Will this fight be worth the memory?” With all that was being offered to me when I arrived at my Grandmother’s house, would even a month of hardship be remembered in the face of the opportunity to be initiated into the mysteries? Would my aching feet forgive me for the chance to learn all the tales of heroes and heroines I had been fortunate enough to hear and aspired to memorize at the knees of the wandering minstrels and druids? Could I find the strength to continue to walk though my feet ached and my legs were shaking and tired? And more importantly, would my soul ever forgive me if I gave up and refused to try?

I compared the two possibilities in my mind and I knew which I would choose. I would continue the trek across the island and take the chance that I might not survive. To take the chance to be more than just a house maid, or wife, or mother. For a chance to know. As darkness settled and even the fog became invisible in the inky blackness of evening, my soul sighed contentedly and I knew peace, even in my discomfort. Tomorrow I would continue towards my destiny. Contentment eased my transition from waking to sleep and I slept again, this time without tears or dreams.

In the morning, the fog was still with me, but the rain had stopped, leaving the ground and air damp but not drenched. My stomach grumbled and ached from the emptiness after so much physical activity. To silence it, or at least quiet it, I took a long drink from my water skin. I took the hunting knife out of my pack and sliced the pack into sections, two large and two small. The larger sections I carefully wrapped around my still sore feet and with some careful cutting and piercing I was able to bind them to my feet so that I could walk without the dirt and mud cutting the now tender soles of my feet or dirtying the open wounds from the previous week’s walk.

The two smaller sections I used to fasten pouches and made a belt from the pack’s shoulder straps. The empty pouches, hunting knife, quiver and bow I hung from the belt and tossed the blanket over my shoulders and head as if it were a well made cloak.

My feet were still tender, so walking on that day was slowly done, and marked with frequent stops to rest and readjust my make-shift sandals. The blanket cloak kept most of the rain at bay, and kept the chills from the wind away also. I was not comfortable, but somehow I was enjoying myself as I overcame the hardships that had been so daunting the day before. This, then was an adventure after all!

I was careful with myself and took time when I was resting to visibly scout the areas where I might be able to find some food for the day. Later in the afternoon I passed close enough to a small apple grove that I took the time to veer off my course. I spent a few hours slowly plucking apples from the trees to fill my empty pouches and eating my fill of the tart but filling fruits. Finally full and tired from pushing onward with constantly complaining feet, l napped a few hours of the afternoon away in that orchard.

When I awoke, it was dusk and I decided to remain there in the relative shelter of the orchard for the evening, eat my fill of apples again for dinner and breakfast on the following day and give my feet a chance to rest and heal however slightly before I continued. At this rate I would be much longer than 5 weeks on my journey, but it would be done. I decided that to me it did not matter how long it took me, this was no foot race in which I had to compete in order to win. This was a test, and I had to complete it to win, no matter how long it took me to do so.

Full of this optimistic resolve, I felt a great gratitude well within my chest and taking the dagger from my belt, I drew a simple circle on the ground around me.

“Thank you Goddess of strength and perseverance. Thank you God of plenty and good fortune. You have both smiled upon me as I questioned and you have taken care of me in my time of need, both body and soul." I closed my eyes and raised my hands up to the sky, humming a simple tune all children learned and sang during the harvest festivals. A light breeze, warmer than the still damp air ruffled my hair and I felt as if I were a child who had just been soothed by her loving parent’s hand. A great feeling of joyful peace surged within me, a dam ready to burst out of my chest. I laughed with sheer delight and was startled when another voice joined mine.

My eyes flew open in surprise and I turned my face towards the place where the laugh had come from, careful to stay within the bounds of the circle in case some wayward spirit would try to lure me to spend my youthful years in the land of the Fay. But this was no immortal Faerie creature sent to lure me to my doom. Across the orchard, only three trees beyond me, a child’s face peered from above me on his perch in a full apple tree. His shaggy, dirty hair shot up in all directions from his head and his face was smudged with mud. His clothes, however, were well kept though well used – they had obviously been mended before and not just at the patches, but at the seams.

“Are you doin’ magick?” He asked me, grinning to show gaps where his baby teeth had fallen out but none of his adult teeth had yet taken their places.

His smile was infectious. “I may be, but I am not trained in it yet. So if I do magick, it is none of my own attempt.”He nodded sagely as if that was the answer he had been expecting then jumped out of the tree. Turning to look over his shoulder at me, he took off at a brisk trot to the East. “Come on!” he cajoled when I did not immediately give chase. “Come on! You’ll be late for dinner!”

That promise of dinner was all I needed to pick up my belongings, scratch out the circle I had created and take off on feeble feet to follow my cheerful guide.

He led me quite a chase, pausing impatiently to call back over his shoulder when I would lag too far behind. Just when the excitement of having a meal had begun to give way to a painful feeling of frustration at being led off my path, we broke through a light patch of underbrush and into a clearing where a small cottage with wood smoke drifting lazily from a thatched roof was the most beautiful sight I had seen in days.

He burst into the house, door slamming behind him and I could hear his excited voice heralding my presence. Suddenly shy I hesitated outside the door and turned to look behind me. I thought about turning and fading back into the shadows as the night crept through the forest. Then the front door opened and a man’s face peered out at me. The smell of roasted rabbit was so strong that my mouth watered and I felt weak in the knees.

His face was lined and wrinkled but lit up with a smile that reached across his entire face when he finally saw me standing by the door. “Look at ye, girly! Just look at ye! Aren’t you a wee bit young to be off wonderin’ on yer own at night?” His words were cautious but his tone was teasing.

“I have been called to study with my Grandmother at the white cliffs. I have to walk to her to begin my teaching.”“Well from the looks of ye, ye’re not doin’ too much more walkin’ today. Come inside and have a nice cup of tea and some stew, rest yer weary feet and stay for the night. Which ever path you must take can surely wait ‘til ye’ve filled yer belly and had some rest.” He stepped aside and opened the door fully to let me in, and I went in gratefully, trusting the hospitality of these people and once again thanking the Gods and Goddesses for their foresight and my good fortune.

Inside the cottage was warm and cluttered but clean. A fire place was the central feature of the house with several antechambers surrounding it. A horde of young children peered out at me from behind a curtain and the man shouted out sternly but with good humor “Back to bed with ye!”

A rounded but not overly plump woman was mending the holes in a small shirt and as I ducked into the house she looked up from her sewing and smiled at me. “Gavin collected ye, did he?” She gestured with a nod of her head at the boy who had led me here. When I nodded, she laughed warmly. “He’s always bringin’ home someone or somethin’ that needs a wee bit of care. But doncha be worryin’ -ye’re welcome here. My name is Browwin and my husband there who let ye in is Finn.”
“She’s headed for the white cliffs to be druid trained, so she says.” Finn handed me a steaming hot bowl of rabbit stew and a chunk of still warm bread to soak it up. I was starving but knew well that I had to maintain my manners especially as I was indeed hoping to be druid trained. There were rules to follow regarding the proper protocol for accepting hospitality when you were a Sacred Wanderer, and those rules did not involve ignoring your hosts and gulping down hot stew like a starving child.

I nodded my thanks to Finn and agreed with his statement. “Aye, I am hoping that I will be strong enough to be fully trained to the Druid’s ways. But as of yet, I don’t share any of their knowledge, only a few tales I chanced to hear when the minstrels came to the village where I lived.” This was how the minstrels would offer their services as story tellers in exchange for the room and board that was always offered. Though they knew many tales, they were never immodest, and only ever claimed to know but a few. I knew several of the simpler tales from having listened to them so often and practicing them with my younger brothers and sisters, so my claim was not false. I felt excited by the chance to share what little I knew in fair trade for the fine smelling stew I held, and the promise of a place to sleep where the air would be warm and dry.

“Let the girl eat, Finn. And take her cloak, it’s needin’ some dryin’ off before she can continue on her way.” Browwin nodded to Finn and he unwrapped the still wet blanket from my shoulders and tossed it over one of the rafters overhead. Gratefully I sat down on the hard packed dirt floor that was covered with tightly woven mats and rugs to keep the moisture from seeping up through the earth and began to eat the dinner that had been offered. Hunger will make even the unappetizing seem delicious, and this was far from unappetizing. I had never tasted stew or bread that was as finely made, or as fragrant. I savored every bite and when it was gone, Finn silently refilled my bowl and handed me another chunk of bread with a grin.

Smiling my thanks, I continued to eat until my stomach was so full I felt as if I would burst at the seams. I reached down with some effort past my full belly to undo the lacings I had fashioned on my make shift sandals and released my feet from their armor. Browwin gasped when she saw the state of my feet, bloodied and bruised and in some places swollen with use. “Have you nothing to wear on your feet, girl?”

Embarrassed by my lack I ducked my head as I answered “I never needed them when I was home. It didn’t occur to me that I would need them when I set out on this trek.” I tucked my feet under me and put my again empty bowl on the floor next to me. To draw attention away from the state of my feet I continued, “but let me now tell you a tale or three, in fair trade for the kindness you have shown me.”

“Children! There’s to be stories! Come outta ye’re beds and gather round this lady, here!” Browwen called to them and in a flurry of excited voices, waving limbs, laughter and the occasional stepped on toe seven small children gathered around me and turned their eager faces towards me.

I took a deep breath and began with the one that had always captivated my youngest brothers and sisters – the story of the Hare of Spring and how the great Chieftan hunted and captured him to trick him into granting magickal good fortune on his clan. Next, for Finn, I told one of the tales of Finn the Great. And finally, for Browwen, a tale of the birth of the Faerie Queen Mab and her adventures as a young sprite.

I had never had an audience before that was not my family and I was amazed at their reactions. When the main character was in trouble, they would lean forward, anxiously anticipating how the scene would be resolved. They laughed when I had hoped they would, and when I had finished the last tale with 18 eyes still upon me, I concluded the story telling with the traditional line that I had always loved “And this is what I say to you that have had ears to hear me; the tales are alive, the tales are inside us. May the magick of my words reach through and warm your hearts tonight as you have warmed my body and soul.” To my surprise and delight, the entire family whooped and applauded.

Filled with satisfaction, I sat back and watched the young family as they hustled their sleepy children back to bed. My eyes became heavy and drooped down as I relaxed; warm, dry, fed and appreciated. Just before I fell asleep on the floor, Browwin shook my shoulder gently and led me to a small pile of skins on the floor a short distance from the fire place. I lay down on the soft mound of fur, wrapped up in the top layer, and fell immediately into a dreamless, satisfied sleep.