Page 7 of The Witch's Rite
Liora laughs, then holds out a wrinkled hand. A band of braided flowers encircles her thin wrist, and I wonder if one of her grandchildren wove it for her. “We’re sure. Do you accept?”
Eyes wide, I look up at Alden, and he gives me an encouraging nod. My gaze shifts once more to Liora.
“I accept,” I say. My hand trembles slightly as I slip it into hers, and then she’s leading me away, and I glance back once to smile at Alden before he’s swallowed up by the crowd.
“YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL.” A YOUNG girl stands beside me, eyes wide and sparkling.
Women and girls of the village are gathered in the small tent, and they’ve all played a part in helping to prepare me for the Great Rite. My hair, loose and hanging about my shoulders, has been decorated with summer flowers, and a white cotton dress has replaced my green one.
Behind me, the tent flap opens, and Niamh steps in, accompanied by the chiming of the bells tied about her waist. I turn from the mirror to face her, and she smiles down at me.
“Aurora. It’s so wonderful to see you again.” She wraps me in a hug that smells of sage and myrrh.
“You remember me?” I ask as I pull away. The last time I was here with my auntie, I was but a child. I didn’t expect the oracle to remember the little green-haired girl who watched wide-eyed as she performed her rituals.
Niamh laughs and squeezes my bare arms. “Of course I remember you. Lilith and I were good friends, you know.” Her smile softens. “She loves you dearly, as much in death as in life.”
Tears spring to my eyes, and Niamh reaches up to wipe them away with the pads of her thumbs.
“There’s no need to cry, my dear. Death is but a transition, the end of one thing so that another may begin.”
I nod and take a deep breath, and my tears slow. “I understand.”
Niamh clasps her hands and takes a step back. Her dark gaze sweeps up and down my body, and she smiles. “Do you know the importance of the Great Rite?” she asks.
Her presence draws the other women in, and they all circle around her, skirts swishing, floral scents accompanying every move.
I know well the meaning of the Great Rite, but I never tire of hearing the stories. “It represents the union of the May Queen and the Horned God,” I say, glancing down at the young girls as they cling to every word. It feels like just yesterday I was thatinnocent, watching the May Queen prepare for the dance around the bonfire. It’s hard to believe I’m the one who’ll now be leading the procession.
“Indeed. It’s a union of the divine feminine and the divine masculine, a sacred marriage.” Niamh reaches to her waist and removes one of the silver bells tied there. With gentle hands, she begins braiding the bell into my hair. “But you know that marriage need not be consummated,” she says, her voice slightly lower now so that only I can hear. She pulls away from me, lips quirking up on one side. “Unless it is desired, of course.”
My cheeks flame with heat. I’ve seen May Queens captured by Horned Gods and swept away to make love in the trees as night falls. I can’t say I haven’t fantasized about it myself. But unless Alden is selected as the Horned God, I certainly won’t be partaking.
“I understand,” I say, trying to banish the blush from my cheeks. “Thank you, Oracle.”
“And whatever you choose to do, remember that there is magic in Beltane. You never know what tricks Brigid might have up her sleeve.” She touches my cheek, and the caress reminds me of Auntie. With a smile, she steps back, long black hair shifting around her waist. “If you’re ready, we may begin.”
Chapter 6
Aurora
AS EVENING DESCENDS, COAXING THE sunlight from the sky so that darkness may reign, I stand at the front of a long line of women and girls, holding an unlit torch, waiting to begin the dance. The younger girls titter with laughter and excited whispers, while the elder and wiser women wait patiently for the Great Rite to unfold.
Beneath my breast, my heart thrums like the wings of a hummingbird. The air is brushed with the smell of flowers and wine, and soon the scent of smoke will fill the village and the forest. Bare feet moving to the drums, we will dance and leap the flames, blessing ourselves and our crops, and the union of the May Queen and Horned God will bring fertility back to the land.
I wonder who the Horned God will be. I still don’t know everyone in the village, so I can hardly begin to guess who might be selected for the ritual. There’s a sense of excitement in not knowing, and the curiosity makes my heart beat ever faster.
Standing beside me is a man with a bodhrán. He wears cotton trousers and has leaves in his hair, and as he looks into the distance, he raises his left hand, then begins to strike the drum.
Behind me, the girls’ whispers fade into silence. When I glance back at them, they’re smiling up at me. I take a breath.
And the Great Rite begins.
The drummer leads the way, guiding our procession one beat at a time. We walk through the town square, which is now nearly abandoned, and past the Maypole, with its ribbons made pale by the rising moon. The cobbles beneath my bare feet are still warm from the heat of the day. We step onto the dirt of Hillock Lane, and from here I can just see Heritage Hill rising up in the distance. Figures move about in the moonlight, shadows shifting like leaves on the trees.
As we draw nearer, another drum can be heard cutting through the night. With each step toward the hill, with each beat of the drum, the excitement inside me mounts. And behind me, the women start to sing.
“Dancing the circle, in flames we ignite, feel the magic on this longest night. As the sacred fire and the moon shine bright, we celebrate Beltane’s warmth and light.”
