Shadows at Stonewylde

21



Faun let herself into the cottage and made straight for the kitchen – she was starving. Her grandmother was at the range putting chopped vegetables into the cooking pot. It smelled like beef stew and Faun’s mouth watered. Her grandmother looked up and smiled.

‘Blessings, Faun my dear. Hungry? Go and sit by the fire and I’ll bring you some tea and cake. Did you have a good day at school?’

Faun nodded and went into the sitting room, throwing herself down in the armchair and tugging off her winter boots. Soon her grandmother brought in a tray and Faun tucked in ravenously. She was almost thirteen, growing fast and putting on weight too. But her mother had assured her it was only calf fat and would rearrange itself into beautiful womanly curves as she got older. Her grandfather brought in a basket of logs and settled himself down too, asking about her day in Senior School up at the Hall. Faun had only started there in September but she seemed to be doing very well. Her mother and grandparents, who all lived together in the cottage, doted on her; she was the apple of their eyes and given a great deal of attention.

By the time Rowan arrived home from the Nursery, Faun had almost dozed off by the warm fire. Rowan pulled off her cloak and boots and sat down in another chair watching her daughter. Rowan was immensely proud of her. Faun was beautiful, she thought, perfect in every way. She was tall for her age as Rowan had been, and becoming as statuesque as her mother. Her body was well developed for a girl and she was becoming a stunning young woman. The girl’s skin was creamy and flawless, her hair blond and wavy and halfway down her back. She had her father’s dark velvet eyes which made Rowan feel very strange at times – it was almost like looking into the eyes of Magus himself.

Rowan sighed deeply. It had been a long day at the Nursery, especially with the coughs and colds plaguing so many of the little ones at the moment. She’d been trying to get the girls to practise for Imbolc but without much success. She knew they’d be fine on the day – they always were and, anyway, nobody minded if a tiny girl made a mistake. It was a different matter with the older ones of course – they were expected to do all the rituals properly. The only one in her Nursery who came anywhere near perfection was Celandine. Rowan had to admit she was a wonderful dancer. The girl was so very light on her feet, seeming to skim the floor, and held her body with the controlled tautness of a true dancer. She remembered steps faultlessly and could create dances to order whether there was music or not. Celandine was so excited about Imbolc now that she was doing a little solo, and Sylvie had been delighted and grateful when Rowan had suggested it.

Rowan’s mouth twisted bitterly at the thought of Sylvie, feeling free to do so in the privacy of her own home. Sylvie was just over a year younger than her, for Rowan had reached her sixteenth birthday at Beltane in the year that Sylvie and Miranda had moved to Stonewylde. That Beltane was the zenith of Rowan’s life, the high spot which she relived constantly to the point where every other part of her life seemed meaningless and pale in comparison.

Rowan, like all the other girls, both Villager and Hallfolk, had always been in Magus’ thrall. Every girl dreamed he might partner her in the Rite of Adulthood, which in those days had involved sexual initiation up at the Stone Circle when all the other festivities were over. Rowan had always hoped desperately that she’d be chosen for her special night. She wasn’t the only girl reaching sixteen at Beltane and Magus could’ve chosen another. Then she’d have had to make do with a Villager and there hadn’t been a single boy she found in the least attractive – not compared to Magus.

She’d almost fainted with ecstasy when he’d found her out one day in the Hall laundry where she worked, and told her solemnly that not only would he be happy to partner her for her Rite if she wished, but had also chosen her to be his May Queen. Rowan had replayed that moment so often in her mind, remembering how she’d been hanging out sheets on the great drying racks at the time in one of the hot basements of the Hall where fires and a boiler roared. She’d been sweating in the heat, her sleeves rolled up and her uniform unbuttoned a little. She’d looked a mess, she thought, her long brown hair tied back in a glossy ponytail with stray curly tendrils stuck to her perspiring cheeks and forehead. She was flushed and damp and the sight of Magus striding through the maze of hanging white sheets calling her name had made her cheeks even rosier. He’d looked down at her, towering over her despite her own height, his dark eyes gleaming and flushed himself from the heat of the place. He’d been wearing his riding clothes and smelt of horse and fresh air.

Rowan closed her eyes and relaxed further back in her chair as she relived the memory for the ten thousandth time. Magus had smiled at her, that enigmatic smile that made the lines around his mouth deepen and showed his white teeth. Then he’d asked her so eloquently if she’d partner him, as if there may be a question of her having to think about her reply. He always did this apparently, never wanting to force a girl who wasn’t eager. She’d gasped with joy and beamed at him, wiping her damp forehead with the back of her hand and stammering her delighted acceptance of the great honour. He’d bowed slightly, told her the honour would be his, and that she’d be taught the rituals she needed to know for the part of May Queen as well as being measured up for her costume, headdress and robes.

‘As for the other side of it, Rowan – we can make that up as we go along. I can promise you it’ll be a memorable experience. It’s slightly more involved as you’ll be the May Queen and I’ll be the Green Man so it won’t just be the simple initiation rites in the Stone Circle. We’ll need to go into the woods for most of the night, for this is a fecundity ritual as well as being your initiation. Can you cope with that, do you think? It can be quite an ordeal and you’ll be exhausted in the morning. I know I always am.’

She’d assured him it would be fine, completely melting inside at the thought of spending the whole night with him in the woods. She’d heard tales from other girls – that he was gentle at first and very skilful, making the experience so pleasurable and unforgettable. How lucky was she? Not only to be initiated by Magus for her Rite of Adulthood but to be his May Queen too! She’d have him all to herself for the night of Beltane Eve in the woods and be by his side all day during Beltane itself, with perhaps that night as well if she proved herself worthy of it. She couldn’t wait to tell her parents – how proud they’d be that their daughter had been chosen for the honour. And as for all her friends …

Magus had smiled at her eagerness, stooping to kiss her lightly on the lips. But Rowan had swayed slightly, her lips apart with longing, and before she knew it he was kissing her long and hard, one strong arm holding her upright as her knees went weak whilst the other hand found her full breast and caressed her with a perfect, knowing touch. On and on it went, his masculinity and passion overwhelming until she was breathless with desire. She was more than ready to lie down on the stone floor of the hot basement, with the white sheets billowing around them, and give herself to him there and then. Fortunately he had more control and reluctantly pulled away. She knew he was very aroused and his dark eyes had practically set her alight the way they burned with that black fire.

‘Well, Rowan,’ he’d chuckled a little shakily, ‘it promises to be a Beltane I’ll never forget. Save yourself for me, won’t you? No sneaking off before then with a Village boy.’

‘Oh no, sir!’ she’d breathed, her chest still rising and falling fast and a flush spreading up over the creamy skin of her throat. ‘It’s only you I want, nor ever will.’

He’d laughed at this.

‘I doubt that very much. Once I’ve given you a taste for it you’ll be favouring the whole Village I’m sure, a beautiful goddess like you. You were made for love with curves like those.’

He’d watched her with admiration as she straightened her clothing and did up a few of the buttons that had burst open under his eager hands. He’d tenderly smoothed the damp wispy curls off her face and kissed her once more, gently this time.

‘Tonight I’ll dream of you lying amongst the bluebells,’ he murmured.

Then he was gone and she was alone amongst the white sheets and the drying racks.

Rowan roused herself from her reverie, not wanting to start Beltane right now. She’d save that memory for later. As always when reliving her perfect moments with Magus, she came out of it feeling depressed and bitter. It had been so short-lived – Beltane itself and a few more times after that during the month of May when she’d managed to be in the right place at the right time. But by the end of May it was over for Magus had moved on to another for the Blue Moon at the end of the month – Miranda.

Rowan felt the familiar tide of jealousy flood through her. Why would he prefer a woman in her thirties, and an Outsider at that, to a ripe young girl like her? She knew she’d pleased him – she’d worn herself out pleasing him and she knew it had been good because he’d come back for more, which he rarely did. But then he’d passed her over for Miranda whom he’d continued to favour that summer, although Rowan knew that he’d been with others too including the young doctor up at the Hall. A man like her Magus needed many women and there was no shortage of offers. Rowan’s rapture at discovering she was carrying Magus’ baby – his first child, or so everyone had thought then, since Buzz – had been marred by the fact that a month later, Miranda had also fallen pregnant. The news had only added fuel to her resentment of the red-haired Outsider.

And then of course by the autumn he was sniffing around that skinny girl Sylvie. The gossip was that he was totally obsessed with her in a way he’d never, ever been with a Stonewylde girl, except perhaps Maizie, some said, several years before. He’d practically locked Sylvie up with him in his rooms throughout December and Rowan, heavily pregnant at the time, had wanted to die. She could’ve accepted him acting normally and having a different woman every Moon Fullness and every festival. But she couldn’t bear to think of him constantly with one girl and besotted with her. It twisted Rowan’s heart and made her baby leap inside her … and then at the Solstice, her beloved Magus had died. Yul and Sylvie – they were the ones to blame. Rowan had never forgiven them and she never would.

When her baby was born just after Imbolc she’d hoped desperately for a boy just like his father. But the tiny girl was beautiful and had Magus’ eyes. Rowan had named her Faun in memory of the night of Beltane Eve spent in the green woods with her very own Green Man, when they’d stumbled on a faun lying camouflaged amongst the undergrowth. Magus had talked to it softly and it had stayed there, mesmerised by his deep voice, and she’d stroked its woolly hide and looked into its velvet eyes. So the baby was named Faun, but even that had been spoiled by the early birth a week later of Miranda’s baby, Rufus. Once again Rowan was hideously jealous, especially as Miranda had a son who also had Magus’ dark eyes. But Rowan had been remarkably adept at hiding her bitter jealousy of Sylvie, Miranda and Rufus, and her hatred of Yul. She was a proud girl and kept her feelings to herself, which was just as well. To this day she’d never shown anyone truly how she felt. But her feelings of adoration for Magus were as strong today as they’d been that Beltane almost fourteen years ago; nobody else could ever compare to him.

Faun opened her eyes and gazed sleepily at her mother, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire. Rowan was struck again by her daughter’s beauty and ached with love for her.

‘Hello, sleepy-head. Did you have a good day at school?’

‘No!’ said Faun petulantly, frowning at her mother. ‘It was horrible.’

‘Why? I thought you loved Hall School.’

‘It’s Leveret – she makes me sick!’

‘Ah yes, the Maiden.’

‘Why was she chosen, Mother? I thought I was to be Bright Maiden this year? You said—’

‘No, my darling girl, I never said you’d be Maiden. I said ‘twas possible but you’re still too young really. It’s usually an older girl, fourteen or fifteen, so maybe next year.’

‘But it’s not fair! I’m much, much prettier than her – everyone says so. She’s ugly and skinny with that horrible wild black hair and that nasty pointed little face. Her teeth are like a rat’s and her eyes like a cat’s. She’ll be an awful Maiden.’

‘I know. I can’t understand why they chose her either.’

Rowan had a very good idea why but she kept it to herself. She was fed up with Yul and Sylvie’s family being chosen for all the honours whilst her lovely girl – Magus’ daughter – was overlooked. Everyone seemed to forget that Faun was a Hallchild but that seemed to count for nothing any more, not like in the old days when she’d have had special privileges.

Rowan’s mother called in for the table to be laid ready for supper and Rowan automatically stood up to do the task. Faun was never expected to do any of the work and the three adults were happy to run around after her and spoil her. Faun watched her mother spreading out the tablecloth and fetching a jug of water and glasses.

‘Can’t you say something to Yul about it, Mother?’

‘No, darling, it wouldn’t do any good.’

‘But it’s not fair! I’d be the best Bright Maiden and I was so hoping they’d choose me. Wouldn’t I be the best?’

‘Of course you would. Nobody’s as beautiful as you, Faun – nobody. Don’t be upset, please. I can’t bear for you to be upset. Just think of how lovely you’ll look in your Imbolc dress, joining in the Dance of the Maidens. And you can choose a fine young partner to dance with and be your escort now you’re at Hall School.’

‘Yes, but I want Kestrel and he’s the Archer of Imbolc again. So Leveret will have him as well as being the Maiden, and even if I am Maiden next year then I won’t have him because he’ll be too old to be the Archer. I can’t stand it!’

‘Think of your new dress, darling. Granny’s spent hours making it beautiful for you. Have you seen all the special embroidery she’s done? You’ll look so lovely and I’ll curl your hair if you like.’

‘Will you? Really curly so it falls in ringlets?’

‘If that’s what you want, my darling. We’ll be up half the night putting in the rags but it’ll be worth it.’

‘Do you think Kestrel will notice me even though he’s partnering Leveret?’

‘Of course he will! All the boys’ll notice you but especially Kestrel. You’ll be the most beautiful girl there and everyone’ll say what a terrible mistake they made choosing Leveret.’

Faun giggled at this and sat down at the table so her grandmother could serve her a generous helping of beef stew, making sure she had all the tastiest pieces of meat and the softest end of the bread. Nothing was too good for their Faun.

It was just over a week until Imbolc and preparations were well under way. This festival was held largely in the Village itself, using the Green and the Barn. With so many young girls taking part in the ceremonies it was just too cold up in the Stone Circle. The beginning of February could be bitter, or worse, very wet. So the archery was done on the Green and all the dancing, singing and poetry in the Barn, as well as the usual feast and dance in the evening. Only a few hardy Stonewylders went up to the Stone Circle to welcome in the dawn of Imbolc, but the stones were decorated nevertheless with the symbols of the festival.

The snowdrop was the first flower to push through the frozen soil and show that spring was on its way and the earth was reawakening after its winter sleep. The bulb was the symbol of new life growing in the earth full of the promise of fertility. The flame of a white candle symbolised the spark of feminine intuition and creativity burning brightly within the breast of the Maiden. But the most important symbol of all was the silver crescent moon, which was also the bow of the Maiden Huntress. For although Imbolc celebrated purity and virginity, hence the young girls all dressed in white, it was also about the potential of later fecundity stored deep within. Imbolc celebrated too the young female as the harbinger of intelligence and wisdom, and powerful sexuality and fertility.

The cart full of painting materials went up to the Stone Circle to begin the task of decorating the stones with these motifs. First they must be scrubbed clean of the faded Yule symbols, so the mistletoe, holly, ivy, deer and golden suns were erased until the next year and briefly the great stones faced the Circle in their unadorned and natural state. Then the Imbolc designs could be charcoaled on by the artists whilst Greenbough, now in his seventies and feeling every one of his hard-working years, supervised the cleaning of the site and the laying of a small bonfire.

The new art teacher had requested that his young protégé Magpie be allowed to help with painting the stones for this festival. David had never seen such raw talent and was convinced he’d something very special on his hands. Magpie wasn’t cluttered with formal education and established ways of thinking; he was a true natural and his gift came from the soul, not from studying or art history. Miranda had agreed to Magpie helping Merewen and the team, but only on the condition that David looked out for the boy himself.

David and Magpie strolled up the Long Walk, the avenue of smaller stones overhung with bare branches which in warmer months made a long green tunnel. Magpie was very excited and understood about decorating the stones. Every year of his life during the eight festivals he’d gazed in simple wonder at the beautiful paintings on the stones. The symbols were ingrained in his soul and were a major factor in the way he made sense of the world. He knew what Imbolc represented at a deeper level than those who understood it intellectually. Magpie’s mind operated at the subconscious level, not analysing but absorbing, not interpreting the symbols of life but echoing them. The symbols resonated within him and now he longed to let images flow from his fingers with paint and brushes, those magic wands that enabled him finally to unlock the treasure trove that was his creative psyche.

‘Now Magpie, you know what pictures we use at Imbolc, don’t you? Delicate white snowdrops with a sheath of green, great rich brown bulbs with the kernel of creation within them. Flames with layers leading in to a central core, like the bulbs. And the silver bow – with an arrow crossing it and just pointing up slightly, aiming for higher things than an animal target. You understand, don’t you?’

The boy nodded happily, his turquoise eyes shining with excitement. He wore a warm cloak against the harsh January chill and his cheeks were rosy from the cold air. His bright butterscotch-coloured hair was covered by a thick felt hat such as the men wore in winter. He was unrecognisable from the filthy, half-starved cur who’d skulked around Stonewylde only a couple of months ago; he’d even learned how to use a handkerchief.

‘Magpie, today you must listen to what you’re told. The others will show you the pattern they’ve adopted and you must follow it carefully so the whole Circle is linked through the images. If you do it wrong it’ll be scrubbed off. Please, Magpie, do this right! I want them to be pleased with you just as I am, so you won’t take it in your head to do your own thing, will you?’

David was a little worried about this for Magpie could be stubbornly independent at times. Often when David was teaching him an idea or new technique, the boy would ignore him and do what he felt was right. David had to admit that whatever Magpie created was usually far superior. But that wouldn’t do today, not when it was the first time he was allowed to join the established painters.

They reached the Circle where the people were already well into cleaning the stones. Old Greenbough looked up at the new arrivals and raised a gnarled hand.

‘Blessings! And young Magpie come to help us – there’s a turn up. Looks a deal cleaner now hisself. Right then, lad, here’s a brush and a bucket o’ water – get to it then.’

Magpie had been peering into the cart examining the pots of pigment waiting to be mixed with water and the special binding agent, a blend of organic material that held the paint to the stones for the six or seven weeks required. He looked up and beamed at Greenbough, then took the proffered tools and set to work a little clumsily, sloshing water onto the stone and scrubbing in great sweeps. Greenbough shook his head, the dewdrop on the end of his nose flying off as he muttered in David’s direction.

‘I don’t know – how can that lad paint the stones good enough when he’s so ham-fisted? We don’t want the Circle looking messy or daft. I hope you’re right about the boy.’

Greenbough had little faith in any Outsider recruited to teach in the Hall School. They didn’t have Stonewylde in their bones so how could they do a good job here? But orders were orders and he’d give the boy a chance. Not that he was in charge of the painting – that was for the artists. It was Merewen, the Stonewylde potter, who supervised it for every ceremony. She lived and worked in the Pottery further down the river from the Village where the great clay beds lay. She was grizzled and gruff, striding around the Circle in her coarse linen tunic splattered with old paint, her cloak flung back over her square shoulders, hob-nailed boots clumping in the soft earth floor.

She glared at Magpie, as doubtful as Greenbough about the outcome of this daft venture. She too knew the boy of old – everyone did – and she couldn’t equate her memory of a gormless and dirty outcast with someone who could possibly decorate the stones to her satisfaction. Merewen had worked with the clay all her life, like her father and grandfather before her. She’d inherited the role of potter of Stonewylde as in the old days children usually followed in their family’s traditional occupation. So she now lived alone in the cottage by the Pottery, in charge of all those who worked there to produce ceramics for Stonewylde’s needs.

Although Merewen loved the medium of clay and was a gifted potter, her real talents were artistic. She decorated her wares beautifully with patterns and motifs, so the role of supervising the stone decorations was an obvious one for her and she’d been doing it for many years. She knew Greenbough well as she must liaise with him about charcoal for firing her kilns. She caught his rheumy eye now and they grimaced together at the spectacle of Magpie with his bucket of water. Cleaning wasn’t something he’d had much experience of in the cottage where he’d grown up.

But later in the day when they began to charcoal the designs onto the stones, Merewen was pleasantly surprised. First the group had discussed the overall pattern which was different each time, giving the Circle a feeling of innovation and excitement as well as tradition and beauty. Magpie couldn’t join in with the talk but had listened carefully and during the discussion, began to sketch rapidly onto the rough paper laid out ready for the first drafts. Merewen was grudgingly impressed with his deft hand and instinctive interpretations. His ideas were incorporated into the overall design and Magpie glowed with pride when he realised this. The rough outlines completed, the painters packed up their cart of materials and covered it carefully with canvas for the night. They’d return each day until the stones were finished.

The women were working together in the Barn; the Dark Moon closest to Imbolc was traditionally spent sewing baby clothes. The tiny white garments were carefully cut from soft linen and stitched into the long nightdresses worn by all Stonewylde babies for their first three months or so. The outfits were embroidered on the chest with white and green snowdrops and a small silver crescent, so whatever time of year the babies were born they’d bear a reminder of the promise of Imbolc, the potential of new life to grow into maturity and fulfilment. Most women completed a nightdress during the first day and would then knit vests, caps, jackets and long booties from the finest wool the next day.

The Barn buzzed with enthusiasm as this was one of the favourite Dark Moon tasks. Groups of women sat around together on the log stools and benches or at the trestle tables, some of the younger girls with aching wombs making big nests of cushions and sitting on the floor. Everyone worked diligently on their nightdress, warm and contented in the haven of the Barn – everyone except Sylvie who sat to one side with her mother. She surveyed the women sadly, not sewing the tiny pieces of linen with their enthusiasm.

‘It’s such a shame, Mum,’ she said quietly. ‘Look at them all sewing and putting their best efforts into making such beautiful tiny things. They don’t realise, do they?’

Miranda glanced at her daughter who’d seemed a lot happier today and had been so for the last couple of days. Her face wore a whisper of that dreamy contentment which Miranda had always envied, knowing its source. She’d been so worried about Sylvie but perhaps things between her and Yul were now on the mend.

‘Don’t realise what, darling?’

‘They’re still making all these lovely baby clothes just as they’ve always done and by the end of this Dark Moon there’ll be a great wicker hamper of beautiful new baby things. But where are the babies to wear them? The birth rate at Stonewylde is so low now, and once this batch of teenagers has grown up it’ll be even lower. We just don’t need baskets and baskets of new baby clothes made every year, especially not when everyone uses old things until they fall apart. There’re probably enough baby outfits at Stonewylde already to last for the next fifty years, and yet every Imbolc it’s the same, more and more being produced.’

‘I see what you mean – I’d never thought of it like that. But it’s nice for young mothers to have new things for their babies, isn’t it? I always longed for lovely pure white clothes to put you in.’

‘But Stonewylde isn’t about using new things, is it? Everyone makes things last and that’s how it should be. Do you know what actually happens to all these little outfits? And has happened for a while now?’

‘Well, I imagine … oh! You mean they’re sold on Stonewylde.com?’

Sylvie nodded sadly.

‘They keep some in the clothes store but the rest go to the warehouse and are advertised on the website. Stonewylde baby-clothes sell for a fortune, I believe, because they’re of the highest quality and so beautifully made. Hand woven fine linen, homegrown organic wool, and all that hand stitching and exquisite embroidery, all that loving care put into them. And then sold to strangers with too much money to burn – it isn’t right.’

Miranda put down her sewing, which had suddenly lost its charm. She’d imagined a tiny Stonewylde baby wearing the nightdress, not a rich woman’s offspring. She sighed.

‘I see what you mean. But ultimately everyone benefits, don’t they? I mean the money made from Stonewylde.com is ploughed back into the community so everyone gains in the end, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so, but … it seems immoral to me, almost exploitation. At least the women should be told what’s happening.’

‘But then they wouldn’t look forward to it – or put in so much effort,’ said Miranda. ‘It’s bad enough now with Harold’s quotas. Maizie was telling me again the other day about the growing ill-feeling in the Village over those quotas and how people aren’t taking such care any more.’

‘Exactly – they feel exploited. And what happens to all the money? I’ve never really got involved with the accounts – Yul and Harold deal with that and use an accountancy firm from Outside. But the profits must be enormous – the materials are home grown, labour’s free, even our electricity comes from the wind farms, so profits must be almost a hundred per cent. But where’s all the money going?’

‘Yul’s always said money’s needed to maintain the status quo and how much we must buy in, as we aren’t truly self-sufficient. Things like toothbrushes and glasses and school books, and Outside clothes and shoes for the students at college too. Fuel for the coach, the vehicles and the tractors, and the telephone bill. The computers in the Hall – you know all the senior students over fourteen have their own. And university fees! That’s where money’s needed.’

‘Yes but not the thousands and thousands that must be made every year from selling our things. Stonewylde.com has grown into a really big enterprise, you know. I worry about it and I think after Imbolc I’m going to find out a bit more.’

‘Be careful, Sylvie – don’t fight with Yul again. You seem happier at the moment and I assume things are better between the two of you?’

‘Yes,’ smiled Sylvie, a look of contentment creeping across her face. ‘Things seem to be on the mend. But this is something different, Mum – I won’t have people exploited.’

‘Alright, darling – just don’t go upsetting the applecart. You know what Yul’s like.’

‘I do, and he’ll have to accept what I’m like too.’

Over on the other side of the Barn, Leveret sat with her mother trying to keep her stitches small and neat, but too aware of the dull ache deep inside her to concentrate well. She’d started off sitting with a group of her contemporaries, but their excited chatter about Imbolc in just a few days’ time had filled her with burgeoning dread and she’d moved over to be with Maizie. She was terrified of the forthcoming ceremonies and not as ecstatic about being chosen as Bright Maiden as everyone assumed her to be. The other girls were very envious and many had wondered why a strange-looking, quiet girl like Leveret had been chosen. Traditionally, the role went to someone very pretty and bubbly. Some who’d seen her at the Outsiders’ Dance understood that Leveret was beautiful, in a slightly outlandish way, but generally it was thought she’d only been chosen because she was Yul’s sister.

Leveret felt hostility amongst some of the girls; Faun in particular gave her antagonistic looks from across the floor. Faun was one of the younger girls there and enjoyed sitting with older girls and feeling special. Leveret had never liked her – Faun was spoilt and indulged and seemed to think she was something above everyone else. Leveret had always found her bland face and long, plump limbs unattractive and her petulance irritating.

Leveret hunched on the stool hugging herself and wishing the cramps would ease off. She’d feel a lot better by the evening but that didn’t help her now. She had to speak to Maizie about the evening ahead, hoping to catch her mother in a good mood. Leveret had asked Clip’s advice about the Dark Moon. It was special to her and she wasn’t sure if she should cast another circle again and raise the energy, hoping to contact Mother Heggy, or whether that was best left alone for a while. Clip had been tentative in his advice.

‘I’m not a Dark Moon person,’ he’d said, ‘so I don’t really know. I’ve always felt an affinity with the Moon Fullness, like my mother Raven and my daughter Sylvie, and it’s when I journey best. The Dark Moon’s a mystery to me – it’s a different sort of magic and not what I’m in tune with. You must have an affinity with the Moon Fullness too, Leveret. I’m still amazed how successful our Wolf Moon journey was. It can take months, if not years, to make contact with your spirit guide, let alone make a full journey. You have the gift, you truly do. I felt it that day up at the stone on the hill when you passed out but I hadn’t appreciated just what potential you have.’

Clip had promised to speak discreetly to Maizie about their working together, and had also agreed not to bring up the incident about the apple barrel again. Clip knew he must handle this carefully as Maizie wouldn’t approve of anything that whiffed of magic, not after the trouble with Yul and Mother Heggy’s prophecies. And there was always the risk of her telling Yul too, which Clip knew would be a disaster. So he’d told Maizie that Leveret had a fine intellect and he intended to leave his books with her when he departed from Stonewylde later that year, as she was the only person he’d encountered at Stonewylde who’d truly appreciate them.

Clip had explained that he was trying to broaden Leveret’s mind, taking her for long walks and showing her plants and rocks that would help with the book studying. Maizie had confided her wish that Leveret become a doctor one day and he’d agreed that she had the potential to be a great healer. He said her studies with him would help as every healer needed a broad and deep knowledge. Clip felt a little guilty misleading Maizie but knew the end would justify the means; Leveret would be a great Wise Woman and shaman for Stonewylde.

But he was unsure about the Dark Moon, worried about her casting and scared that with so little experience she might conjure something unwanted. Clip felt Leveret was on the cusp of something and when the time was right, all would be made clear. In the meantime she shouldn’t do anything to put herself in danger.

‘What do you feel at Dark Moon?’ he’d asked her.

‘A great excitement inside me,’ she’d replied. ‘A thrill, a sort of rush of power and magic. I tingle with it as the skies darken and the stars come out. I feel as if I could do anything and it’s growing more powerful as I get older.’

‘I think you should walk in the night,’ he’d advised. ‘Go somewhere you feel the Earth Magic and let the Dark Moon flow through you. But don’t try to channel anything yet, not until you’ve learnt more.’

So now she must broach the subject with her mother. Maizie had been fine about the Wolf Moon because Clip had said they were working in his tower for the evening. How far could she bend the truth now without actually deceiving her mother?

‘I saw Clip yesterday at school, Mother,’ she began nonchalantly, stitching with sudden diligence.

‘Oh yes? Was he pleased you were chosen as Bright Maiden?’

He’d been delighted, saying it was highly symbolic.

‘Yes, he was thrilled and wants to help me prepare spiritually.’

‘Ah, the spiritual side. We’ve been thinking of your outfit and making sure you know the rituals, but the spiritual side is important too, o’ course.’

‘I must go out this evening and Clip’s keen for me to do so. Is that alright?’

‘Yes, if Clip wants you to. I know he’ll look after you.’

Maizie had followed her trail of implication without her having to actually lie. Leveret smiled, her green eyes lighting up.

‘Thanks, Mother – I won’t be late.’

‘I’ll keep your supper under a plate on the range. I’m at the Hall with Miranda and Sylvie tonight, running through things for Imbolc so I’ll probably be late back. Oh Leveret, I’m so excited!’

‘Mmn, me too.’

In fact Leveret was dreading being the centre of attention. Despite evidence to the contrary at Yuletide, she was convinced of her ugliness and worried sick she’d forget the complex dance steps and words she must chant. And despite her crush on him, Leveret was nervous about Kes being her partner. She was scared of making a fool of herself, terrified of dancing with him and sure that he’d hoped for one of the pretty, amusing girls to be his Bright Maiden, not a boring, plain one like her. He must be feeling disappointed.

But she hid her fear and self-doubt for her mother’s sake, putting on a brave face and letting the chatter wash over her – at least she’d be out tonight celebrating the Dark Moon. Leveret felt a sudden tingle of excitement and forgot all about menstruation pains and the proximity of Imbolc. All she thought of was the night ahead and the dark joy of being out, wild and free, in the magic of the Dark Moon.