A Spring Awakening

**********

Once upon a time, long, long ago, but only yesterday, there was, and once there was not …

The crackle of the fire disturbed Liath’s restless slumber.  She rolled over and tried to snuggle more deeply under the warm woolen blanket, her hand automatically reaching out to pull the supple, furry wolf hide over her head in an attempt to block out the suddenly increasing brightness of the flames.

A hand shook her shoulder gently.  “Wake up, sleepy one.  Dawn is here,” Aria whispered in her ear.  “We’ve a big day ahead of us.”  Then her máthair was gone, quietly ghosting away to other early morning chores.

Suppressing a sigh, Liath pulled herself into a sitting position on the bench where she slept, a large oak slab supported in part by the outer wall of the roundhouse.  As she stirred, her sleepy mind awoke further, and she recognized the sweet odor of bedstraw that wafted out from the stuffing of her linen mattress.  Thankfully, the ache in her belly and breasts that had been bothering her two days before was gone—her menarche had not yet come.  “Soon”, her máthair had predicted.  “Soon you will be a woman, but not in time for Imbolc.”

Imbolc— twelve years ago Aria had celebrated Imbolc with the birth of a child—“My birth,” Liath thought swryly.  Many children were born early in spring, the direct result of consummated handfastings made at Beltane, but few were actually born on Imbolc Day.  “An Imbolc baby is considered very lucky, blessed by Brighid herself … and expected to live up to their full potential,” Liath reminded herself with a snort.

Liath’s sleep had been very troubled, in part by her own nervous excitement for the coming day, but also as a result of the very early departure of the men and boys, long, long before the light of dawn.  They had gone out hunting, taking the wolfhounds with them, in a search for wild boar or red deer.  The winter had been long and cold, and there was little dried or salted meat remaining for the evening’s feast.  Now that the snow was mostly gone—only found in patches under the trees on southern slopes and in thin layers on northern slopes—the dogs and men could get around well enough for hunting.  Yesterday, they had also set snares … if the hunt was unsuccessful, there was still hope that there might be hare or capercaille caught for the Imbolc meal.

The heavy curtain—a tapestry depicting a hunting scene—that provided limited privacy for Liath’s personal space in the roundhouse had been pulled back, letting in the light and warmth from the cheery blaze on the central hearth.  In the flickers from the flame, she could just see her clothing where it hung on pegs from the wicker walls forming the two sides of her sleeping alcove.  Standing up, she reached out to where she had hung her breeches the night before, gathering them into her hands.  She pulled them on, the soft deerhide feeling cool on her legs and making her skin prickle.  Her fingers made quick work of the laces in the dim light, a task she had learned from early childhood.  Next, she slipped her festival tunic over her head.  It was made from pure white lamb’s wool, symbolic of her status as a child, and she only wore it on special celebratory days.  The soft fabric fell in gentle folds to her thighs.  Bending over, Liath pulled on her tough, cowhide boots, lacing them up over her breeches.  Coming to just below her knees, they were good protection against the remaining snow drifts.

Deftly, Liath ran her hands through the fine braids that held her unruly red-gold hair at bay, ensuring that they were neat and orderly.  Aria had spent most of last evening washing, combing and carefully braiding Liath’s hair, trying to make her rambunctious daughter look like the young maiden she was suppose to be.  Finally, Liath grabbed her heavy grey woolen cloak and swung it over her shoulders.  Spring was on its way, but it hadn’t arrived yet.  The walk to the Goddess’s well would be chilly this early morning.

Everyone was already gathered around the hearth when Liath finally emerged.  Áine, Liath’s senmáthair, was handing out baskets to all who would be walking to the spring—Liath’s two older sisters Muirenn and Sadb, her unmarried aunt Gráinne, Aria, and Liath herself.  Áine would not be coming this year.  She had injured her knee last fall, and still walked with a limp.  No longer young, her long hair silvered by age, she was happy to be the hearth keeper for the day.  Muirenn and Sadb still wore white tunics, but unlike Liath, theirs were belted with sashes of red-dyed wool, an indication of their passage into womanhood.  Sadb, the elder of the two, had embroidered the hem of her festival tunic with bright patterns in blues, greens, and browns.  Gráinne, older than her sister Aria, now wore a black scarf about her shoulders, a sign of her recent entry into the ranks of the wise, a crone with streaks of grey in her dark auburn hair.

Áine handed Liath her basket with a smile and a wink.  Inside the basket was the green circlet of woven rushes that Liath had made yesterday, a small clay jar with a stopper … and the brídeóg.  Made from the straw of last year’s harvest, the women of the household had worked cheerfully, and with many silly or sly witticisms, to create and decorate the brídeóg doll with the colors of spring.  Still a maiden, Liath had been chosen to lead the family pilgrimage to the sacred spring and ask Brighid to bless the brídeóg.  “Who will lead them next year once I have reached womanhood?” she wondered.  She was the youngest, and last, girl child of her family, and her sisters were not even handfasted yet.  “Likely that task will fall to a maiden from some related family,” Liath hypothesized.

Looking in the basket again, Liath saw a round of barley bannock and a journey cake containing dried meat and fruit, sustenance for the morning’s journey.  She smiled her thanks to her senmáthair for her kind thoughtfulness, and watched that smile reflected back to her in the wise old woman’s grin of joy.

In a whirl of movement, the women left the roundhouse, stepping out into the cold, crisp morning.  There was no frost on the ground, but the dew was heavy and drenching.  The sky above was a pale misty whiteness, beginning to brighten in the east.  There would be no colorful sunrise this morning, but there was some hope that the mist might burn off to leave a cloudless blue sky.  As Liath looked around, she saw a number of other groups of women coming out of various roundhouses in the village.  Imbolc morning was the women’s time at the sacred spring.  Later in the day, after the men and boys had returned from the hunt, there would be an opportunity for them to make their own journeys to present their wishes and gifts to Brighid.

The women from the village coalesced into a gregarious group, all heading in the same direction.  Running along with the group, weaving in and around everyone’s feet and energetically bounding about, were several black and white cuilean, companion and herding dogs so bonded to their people that they could not bear to be left behind.  Morning greetings, casual chatter, and the odd ribald joke filled the air.  Liath knew that later, as the trail narrowed, the individual families would once again form separate clusters, but for now, the morning invited a joyous gathering and sharing of news.  She nibbled on her bannock and watched the interactions between the women around her with great interest.  Soon, she would be joining their ranks …

The trail, muddy but clear of snow, climbed a gentle hill, then traversed under the eaves of an ancient forest of oak, ash, birch, and hazel, heading east into the rising sun and staying along the southern slope of the hill.  Here, in patches at the edge of the forest, were the first flowers of spring.  As they walked along, each woman picked a few blossoms—yellow gorse, primrose, celandine, colt’s foot, and dandelion, white daisies, and pink wood anemones—to put in their baskets.  Liath collected a few evergreen fern leaves and some hazelnut catkins as well, liking the way they contrasted with the colors of the flowers.

The path dropped down into a valley between two hills, the ground becoming moister, even marshy in places, with larger patches of snow where the weak rays of the early spring sun had not yet reached.  Runnels of water ran down the slopes, coming together to form a stream along the base of the valley.  Here there were patches of sweet violet, their purple blossoms to be added to baskets and their tasty leaves eaten as a snack.

The way turned north and narrowed, rising slowly upwards, following the stream to its source.  The valley became constricted, then opened up into a small grassy glade.  The mist had burned off at last, and the sun shone brightly down, revealing the dark forest that crowned the surrounding hills, ancient timber in somber grays and greens.  At the head of the valley, an artesian spring bubbled merrily out of the ground, pouring its water into the little stream, which gurgled its way through the meadow.  Violets and daisies, purple and white, dotted the vale bottom, bright spots of color amongst the green and brown of newly awakened grasses and rushes.

Around the spring where it gushed forth from the ground, the hands of people had built a wall of stones, skillfully stacked pieces of grey granite quarried from the nearby hills.  Over the spring hung gnarly old hazels, and behind it rose ranks of naked white-skinned poplars and alders, following the hillside upwards towards its crown of oaks and ash.  Already, the first women had reached the spring.  Liath and her family found a relatively dry spot near the stream, laying out their cloaks to sit upon in the now rapidly warming spring morning.  They would wait respectfully until it was their turn to approach the spring—each person was given as much time as they needed to commune with the Goddess and ask her blessing.

Dumping her basket out onto her cloak, Liath sorted through the blossoms and greenery she had gathered.  In between bites of journey cake, she wove the flowers, ferns, and hazel catkins into the rush circlet, creating a crown of amber and saffron, lavender and rose, ivory and emerald.  “Such exotic names for the colors of Nature,” her mind marveled.  She could only hope that she had imbued her offering to Brighid with the wish she wanted to present to the Goddess for blessing.  When she was done, Gráinne helped her fit the circlet on her head, rearranging her braids and ensuring that everything was straight and tidy.  “What a silly little maiden I’m being today”, Liath thought.  “Everyone knows what a hoyden I really am.”  However, as she looked around, she could see that all the girls and women were doing similar things—weaving flowers into crowns or bracelets or binding them together in posies with twists of grass.

While they waited, Gráinne and several of the other older women wondered about the meadow, looking for useful herbs and seeking out places where the violets grew thickest.  There, they filled their baskets with violet flowers and leaves to garnish the evening feast.  Liath watched them intently.  Gráinne was very knowledgeable in herb lore, a healer of some esteem, and Liath was eager to learn as much as she could through careful observation.

Soon, their time to visit the spring had come.  Leaving her cloak behind on the grass, Liath led her family along the path to Brighid’s well.  Tingling with nervous energy, she was apprehensive—this was the first time she had been singled out to play a role in the seasonal rituals of her family.  She must not make any mistakes!  The ground beneath her feet changed from muddy, well-trodden grass to artfully interlocked flagstones as she approached the stone circle that defined the well’s boundaries.  Closer, she could see where the spring flowed effusively out of the ground, forming a pool that drained through a gap in the rockwork to give birth to the small stream.  The paved path continued in a circle around the spring, bracketed by the stone wall on one side and the trunks of the overhanging hazels on the other.  A fresh, clean scent filled Liath’s nostrils, underlaid by the odor of burgeoning greenery.

As Liath reached the rockwork, the rest of her family held back.  Three times sunwise Liath walked around the spring, each time carefully stepping over the little stream as she passed it by, working hard at keeping her mind filled only with thoughts of respect and reverence for the Goddess.  After the third circuit, Liath knelt by the hole in the rock wall where the water flowed out, placing her basket beside her.  Taking the brídeóg into her hands, she bowed her head in deference, and spoke the words she had been taught:

“Mighty Brighid, Daughter of Dagda,
Keeper of the flame, Bringer of light,
Mistress of the forge, Mother of the hearth.
O Goddess, we honor you, Exalted One.
Bless us now, Great Mother,
That our lands be fertile and our crops be abundant.”

Gently, she immersed the straw doll in the icy spring water, letting it be anointed by the blessings of Brighid.  Tonight, the brídeóg would watch over the household festivities; tomorrow it would be broken up and scattered over the fields to bless them before planting.

Reaching into her basket again, Liath took hold of the clay bottle.  She wriggled the wooden stopper free, then held the bottle under the flowing water, letting it fill while she offered a second prayer:

“Brighid, Goddess of healing,
Guardian of the wells and waters and herbs.
We honor you, Great One.
We thank you for the protection of your cloak and the tending of our fires.
Give your blessings to this water,
That it might protect our homes and heal our hurts,
That it might ease our hearts and bring joy to our lives.”

With great care, Liath worked the stopper back into the bottle, making sure that none of the precious water could leak out.  This consecrated water would serve many purposes in the year to come—sprinkled in homes for protection, on fields for fertility, and used in healing.

Basket in hand, Liath scrambled to her feet.  All around the spring, the hazel trees were now adorned with flowers—wreaths and bracelets and posies—containers for the wishes of those who had created them.  Looking for a branch that was empty, Liath carefully pulled the circlet of flowers from her head and looped it over the branch.  This was the last, and hardest, part for now the words were her own, and the blessing she asked was a personal one.  She closed her eyes, and silently, in her head, she intoned the words she had practiced over and over since winter solstice:

“Great Brighid, Goddess of poetry, Goddess of craft,
Goddess of divination and prophecy.
Mistress of the fires of hearth and forge,
Bringer of light to the both our outer world and our inner world.
Keeper of lore, knowledge, and wisdom.
One who grants inspiration and skill.
Bless me that I may follow in the footsteps of m’athair
And in my time be draoi for my people.”

“What should I expect?  Will the Goddess answer me?”  Liath’s thoughts came unbidden.  She stilled her mind, waiting.  Nothing … then the sweet, liquid trill of a wren in full spring song swept over the spring.  Tears sprang to Liath’s eyes as she was engulfed in the beauty of the moment.  “An answer?  Surely!”

Turning away from the hazel tree, Liath walked back to her family where they had been waiting patiently.  Aria gave her a bright smile and Gráinne touched her arm briefly, reassurances that all had gone well.  Liath gave a sigh of relief and was happy to wait while her sisters, aunt, and mother each spent their own moments in the presence of the Goddess.

Liath hardly remembered the trip back to the roundhouse—her heart raced and she felt as though she could fly like the wren whose song had graced the spring.  Soon the gates of the palisade were in sight and the friendly smell of smoke from cook fires drifted into her awareness.  Passing through the gates, Liath saw immediately that the fire in the village’s communal roasting pit had been lit.  People moved busily around the village center, and hanging near the fire were the carcasses of deer and boar.  The hunt had been very successful!  Brighid had smiled upon them.  Already the animals had been skinned and partially butchered, and Liath could smell the mouth-watering scent of meat beginning to roast.

Entering the family’s roundhouse, Liath blinked until her eyes adjusted to the dimness after the brilliant midday sun.  More aromatic scents filled her nostrils.  Áine had been busy while they had been away.  Clay pots rested beside the hearth fire, filled with slowly roasting tubers—turnips, parsnips, and carrots.  Another pot was bubbling gently—spring hare stewing in herbs.  Eggs gathered from the hens that lived in wicker baskets within the roundhouse were nestled in the ash at the edge of the hearth, baking.  Someone had been out to milk the ewes—a bowl of cream sat on a nearby table and even some fresh butter had been churned.  Best of all, Liath could see a little pot of honey from Gráinne’s bees—a very special treat that had been saved for the Imbolc celebration.  A grand feast it would be indeed!

Putting her basket aside, Liath took out the brídeóg and hung it carefully from a peg on one of the roundhouse beams where it could watch vigilantly over the festivities in Brighid’s honor.  As she stepped back, movement caught her eye, and Liath turned to see Cúán, her father.  A Druid whose wisdom was valued far beyond just their village, he had accompanied the morning’s hunt to assist and add his prayers for success.  He smiled warmly at her, and she could sense that all had gone well on the hunt, that no one had been injured and all the wolfhounds had returned safely.

“You look happy, m’iníon,” Cúán greeted her as he moved closer.  “Did the blessed Brighid smile upon you?”

Liath looked up at him, joy in her eyes, “I think she did.”

“Well, very good that is!  It is a day for blessings.  And I shall give you one more … may the blessings of Brighid shine down on this day, the special day of your birth, my young scamp.”  He gave Liath a rib-cracking hug and a grin.  “So, when do you want to start your training?”