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 Musicology Anthology Entry |
| Notes ▼ The Hunter's moon looms large in the sky, casting a pale, ghostly hue across the open meadow. The weather has yet to turn, still holding on to the last remnants of the summer heat, but a chill has steadily set in since the sun began its descent. I curse my luck and fight back a shiver. At least it is still early Autumn. In a few weeks the storms will roll in and drench the countryside with their torrential downfall. As it is, my thin, ceremonial gown offers little protection from the icy bite of the evening breeze. In contrast, my escorts are draped in heavy, woollen cloaks with their hoods pulled up to block out the cold. Their status within the coven is denoted by the cord tied at their waists. They walk huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, in pairs. The deep drone of their collective voice rumbles through the quiet as they chant in our native tongue. Only their hands remain exposed to elements, holding the wooden torches that light our path to the edge of the Forest of Anam. Drips of liquid-fire bleed from the fuel-soaked jute and threatens to ignite the heavy fabric of the group's outer wrappings. Tonight is when we are at our weakest. Our most vulnerable. Each cycle when the moon is at its fullest, it smothers our connection to our ancestors like a thick, damp blanket, leaving the coven at half strength and with access only to the basest of magic. It is a curse the Aethelred Coven has suffered for centuries. At the head of the precision, Cassandra Hawthorne walks in silence as she navigates the gradual slope. Her head raised, hands clasped tightly together, and her posture straight. There is little of my grandmother in her tonight. Only the High Priestess is present. Cold. Stern. The opposite of the warm and compassionate woman I have known my whole life. The only maternal figure I have ever known. It has been a month since my first bloods came. Twenty-six days to prepare mentally and physically for this night. It is not long enough. My heart drums loudly in my chest. I can feel the wash of blood in my ears. Panic is starting to set in. Of all the rites of passage a new witch must endure the blood rite is the most significant. Tonight, after the ritual, my magic will finally awaken, and I will discover which magical archetype I hold. Only then will I be officially accepted into my coven. At thirteen summers old, I am the last of my friends to be called to the stone circle. It has been a lonely six months. Ostracized from my contemporises until the Goddess Modron deems me ready. Worthy. Not even my grandmother visited the bunkhouse. As High Priestess she could not flout our traditions or break our laws. The silence has been deafening. Especially last night. My mind had raced in unending circles, keeping me from sleep until the sun had crested through the threadbare covering on the window. The sharp edges of half-buried stones cut into the soles of my feet as I try to keep pace with the congregation. My feet are already slick with blood and tender to the touch. I wince with each step. I will be picking embedded gravel out for weeks. I steal a glance at Deni through the strands of my long hair hoping to catch her eye, for a sign of warmth or message of encouragement, but like the rest of my former friends, her gaze is downcast and hidden under the cowl of her hood. I am truly on my own. As we close in on the tree line that marks the entrance to the forest, the pace slows. My grandmother stops and turns to face me. “It’s time Everleigh.” With a slow exhale to steady my nerves, I step forward and raise my head to meet her piercing grey eyes. The coven fans out behind me in an arc, blocking any hope of retreat or escape. Not that I would bring shame to my ancestors. My grandmother’s wrath pales into comparison to that of the disgruntled souls of our lineage. Time and death do not heal all wounds. Especially not for those bound to the mortal realm by century old bones. "This full moon marks the start of your journey,” she says, “One that each of your sisters here has taken. Tonight we ask the Goddess Modron to bless you and awaken your magic, so that you may join us… Sister Mari, the kirfane and labradorite please." With a nod of her head, she beckons my aunt forward and holds out her hand to receive the small, white handled knife. It had been my mother’s. One of few items passed down to me. My aunt is the opposite of her twin in every way, or so I am told. Where my mother was warm and vibrant, my aunt is cold and distant. Her flaxen blonde hair a mirror image of my mother’s rich raven locks - a trait I have inherited. She does not look at me as she steps seamlessly back into place behind me. It does not surprise me. We have never been close. I am the blight on the family name. A curse that took her sister. Her other half. Something she has never forgiven me for. I do not blame her. I do not blame any of them for keeping a wide berth. Superstition runs deep within our community. Even I have not forgiven myself for the loss of the mother I never knew. “This blade is your connection to our ancestors,” my grandmother continues, “Guard it well. Ensure no blood graces its edge, to do so will severe that bond. Use it to guide you as you commune with them." With a tight smile she turns and gestures to the forest. Her arm flowing in a long gentle arc to point to a void in the trees. An empty space that sucks what little light is cast in its direction. My feet carry me to the forest boundary, and I step into the darkness. Dirt thruways spindle their way through the tall pedunculate oaks, ash, and wych elm, as I weave my way along the trail of the ancient labyrinth. The canopy of Douglas firs is thick. The branches only allowing mottled moonlight to seep through. Eyes closed. My feet follow the heavy pull at the centre of my chest which directs me to my final destination: the sacred stone circle - nine large, sarsen monolithic stones that surround the sacred micaceous sandstone alter. Each one carved with the deep grooves of a rune that represents a separate archetype. Tonight, the forest seems empty of life, like it is holding its breath. Predator and prey laying low in anticipation to something far more dangerous. Older. I step under the bough of a yew and make my way to the alter, bowing my head low in reverence at the entrance pillars. The sky is unobstructed here and the moon paints the stones with a muted palette. I clutch my mother's necklace at the hollow of my throat, the vivianite stone warm against my skin, as I climb the cracked steps. The shallow depression in each stone slab is cold against my skin, worn smooth with time and countless treads. At the centre of the alter lies the ceremonial bowl: hammered copper, stained a brilliant turquoise blue from the weathering of the elements. It is full of rainwater, collected from last night's downpour and blessed by the moon. With my knife safely tucked into the folds of my dress, I lift the labradorite crystal above my head and offer it to the night sky. The iridescence surface flickers like the aurora borealis it was found under. Other than the kirfane and the necklace, it is the only item I was permitted to bring. An offering to the Goddess herself and the key to unbinding my blood and the magic it holds. "Mother Modron, blessed Goddess of sovereignty and rebirth. I pledge my loyalty to you and ask that you awaken that what lies dormant. To connect me to my ancestors with your ancient wisdom so that they may guide me, empower me, and protect me.” I bring the stone to my lips and then cast it into the bowl in front of me. A dull clink reverberates through the silence as the crystal sinks to the bottom of the bowl. I exhale. My breath matches the rhythm of the ripples on the water’s surface. I remove the leather twine from around my neck and hold the necklace in my open palms. It is my tether to those that came before me. To my mother. A part of my heritage and the key to my ancestral magic. I close my eyes and listen. The Goddess’ reply is instant. Rain speckles my face as I turn my head to the heavens and smile. A gentle breeze wraps around my ankles and wrists, before gliding between my fingers making them feel light. Anticipation rises within me. The moon shines brighter and lights the stone circle. The runes in the stone henges glow gold. I turn my head to study each one. To see which one will speak to me. I hear the lyrical voices that chatter excitedly in welcome. This is it - the moment I final get my powers, and I become more than just my mother's daughter. The High Priestess' heir. A curse that killed her kin. A crack of thunder shakes me from my reverie. The golden light flickers and sputters out, suffocated by a thick tension that permeates the air. The rain is suddenly heavier. Small pellets of ice sting my skin as they strike against my bare arms. There will be bruises in the morning. Eyes wide. I look around. The runes burn brightly, alite with angry flames that leave soot in their wake, marring the once pristine blue stone. “Modron… Goddess... I didn’t mean to anger you. Please…” I beg in confusion. My pulse races. My mouth dries. The earth rumbles beneath my feet, knocking me to the ground at the foot of the alter. I hit the steps hard and something sharp digs into my waist. I wince. My eyes fill with tears. I hope nothing is broken. "Please... Tell me what I did wrong." The wind howls between the trees. Leaves and bracken swirl in the small vortexes that spin throughout the clearing. A willowy branch barely misses my head as it is picked up and sucked into the sky. I cower. Curling in on myself. Tucking my small frame into a tight ball. “Please… Please stop…”, I beg but my voice is lost in the maelstrom. Lightning flashes behind the dark clouds that have rolled in. A clap of thunder follows immediately. More lightning strikes follow in quick succession. Hitting the ground and leaving a trial scorch marks. The storm is over head, and I am at its epicentre. “Just tell me what I’ve done. What did I do?” I scream. A bolt of white crashes into the alter. The stone structure groans from the surge of heat. A large black crack splits its surface, before it implodes and falls. Its back broken. Splintered. I stare in disbelief. The sacred table lies in ruin. The copper bowl abandoned on the floor. Empty. The moon water lost to the earth. “No...” I breath out. I turn and run. Still clutching my mother's necklace. My knuckles white and my heart hammering. Branches whip against my legs and arms, and small thorns tear at my skin. I stumble over tree roots, as I make sharp twists and turns through the maze of bark to escape. To make it back to safety. To the people who will protect me. After what feels like an age, I break through the tree line and barrel into the witches gathered just beyond it. They stand stiff. Their faces staring at the sky. Mouths wide in fear and disbelief. Their heads turn towards me and the whispers begin, gaining in volume with each swipe of their eyes. I take a deep breath and try to rein in my breathing, as I lie in a tangled heap of limbs at their feet. “What has she done?”… “Look at her…”… “The Goddess has rejected her!”… “She is a curse to the coven”... "Cast her out!"... “Everleigh... " my grandmother calls cautiously. A slight quiver at my name is the only hint of fear in her otherwise strong and steady voice, "What happened? What did you do?” "N-nothing... I promise..." I scramble to my knees. "Nothing? This is not nothing! Think girl! Did the ancestors speak to you. Did you receive your powers?" "N-no... I d-don't think so,” I reply, “everything happened so quickly. It was f-fine... and then-" “SHE’S BLEEDING!” a shrill voice from the congregation shouts. My grandmother reaches forward and touches the frayed fabric and deep red stain that bleeds across the white cotton of my dress. “I f-fell…” I stammer, “w-when the lightning hit the alter… it broke in half. I must have landed on the knife...” I clutch my side. A sharp sting radiates just below my ribs. “The alter lies destroyed? Goddess no… You have spilled blood in our most sacred of spaces. You have tainted your kirfane.” my grandmother gasps, tearing her hand from me. She steps back. Putting space between us. “Grandmother, please…” I plead, but she takes another step away. “The Goddess has weighted you, measured you, and found you unworthy. It is the only explanation,” she mutters and close her eyes. A momentary pause before she addresses the crowd who look on expectantly . “The Goddess herself has rejected this child. A warning we must heed!” I rise to my knees, my hands clasped together. “No... please. Do not forsake me. I beg you.” "You are not a daughter of Aethelred. You are tainted. Ordinary! There is no place for you within this coven.” She turns her back on me and slowly walks away, “Come my sister, let us leave this child, as the Goddess herself has chosen to do. She is not one of us!” I collapse back onto the hard earth. My face buried in my hands. Feet shuffle passed my prone figure as my coven abandons me. My sobs the only sound to break the night. Dawn comes. The sun thawing the ice that has burrowed into my bones. My muscles are heavy. Tired. But I am alive. I unwind my limbs and stand. Life as I know it is over. The girl I was - dead. Left in the forest of souls. I stumble on bruised and broken feet towards the coven. To my life as an outcast. I have nowhere else to go. **** Lyrics ▼ |
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