Many, many thanks for the recent donations. Here’s a snippet from the book for you to enjoy.
Elen remembered the making of her daughter, Helen. It was a warm, Beltane night. She had no sweetie and she felt bereft. Her mother had died at the beginning of spring. Usually being alone didn’t bother her. But, tonight she was compelled by an unseen force to celebrate the holiday.
She washed and brushed her long, fiery red hair until it fell down her back in gleaming waves and put on her best dress. She didn’t know what to expect that Beltane night. Men evaded her and her mother. Even though they were healers, they were suspected of being witches. No one knew her past or where her real magic lay.
She wandered towards the forest and a red deer broke off from the herd and joined her, gently lipping her arm. She reached over and patted its muzzle, wishing it well as she looked into its deep, liquid brown eyes.
In the distance, she saw the fires of Beltane on the hilltop, heard the faint strains of fiddles, and the sounds of the revelers. She continued towards the forest with the twilight settling around her shoulders like a cloak.
In the forest, it was quiet except for the leaves rustling with a gentle breeze sounding like the waves on the sea coming to shore with a gentle whoosh. The crunch of a twig breaking caught her attention and she froze, like one of her deer friends, wide-eyed in the gloaming. Another crack. It was the sound of a human, not an animal.
And out of the trees, silhouetted by the rising full moon, there he was. A tall, dark figure. There was an instant frisson of energy that danced between them. It was if their very auras collided and fizzed.
He opened his arms and she walked into them, unafraid. He held her as if he cherished her, carefully and lovingly. She reached up and stroked his face. It was smooth, but different, not covered in stubble, but more like the bark of a tree. It was like he had a face of living wood. She wished she could see it in the darkness.
When he moved, she heard the rustle of leaves. When he kissed her, all was lost. She melted into him and his touch. He awoke something in her.
Their joining was slow. He touched her everywhere and reverently, murmuring a love language she didn’t understand. It was like Gaelic, but older. Its cadence washed over her like a spell. And she was hungry then, for his touch and their joining.
When their passion abated, he held her tenderly. Elen nestled in his arms, dozing, waking, and dozing again in a dream-like sequence. Sometime before dawn, when a lone bird piped a tune to wake the sun, he moved away from her gently. Pulling away, bit by bit, untangling their limbs that had become one.
He kissed her tenderly, whispering, “Mo Cridhe, Elen, my love.”
But, he left her and tears streamed down her cheeks silently as a ray of sun spilt through the trees.
She knew she was with child.
Children from Beltane were not looked upon as a sin. Many women held fruit in their loins after a raucous Beltane night.
Elen thought about the encounter over and over again. She knew in her heart that this one night of passion would likely never come again. Her mother told her so, that her line lived through their women. That’s just the way it was. They were focused on healing, and not wifely duties. And, she was to bring up her daughter and teach her to be a healer as Elen’s mother had taught Elen, and her grandmother had taught her mother. It was that way for a millennium.
Thanks to Photo by Cris DiNoto on Unsplash
