Moondance of Stonewylde (12 page)

‘Ah yes, the venerable Wise Woman. Haven’t seen her for years, poor creature. Not too keen on us Hallfolk, especially not my generation. Understandable too, when one considers how she was treated.’

‘So what’s your relationship to Magus, Professor?’ asked Sylvie.

‘I’m his half-uncle, if there is such a thing. His father, Elm, was my half-brother. As was Clip’s father, Basil. Both were older than me. Elm, Basil and I all shared the same father – the magus as was then, of course – but different mothers. Our father was … liberal with his favours, and fathered many children. Unlike our present magus, who’s far more careful and selective about sowing his seed. My half-brother Basil was the eldest, and the one entitled to inherit Stonewylde. The rest of us were just excess siblings. Elm stepped in after Basil’s death, and took over until Clip was old enough to don the mantle of magus. But he never did, and one can’t really blame him given the weight of the responsibility and what he was up against. Sol was ever the dominant one, just like his father before him. It’s fascinating to trace the family lines.
Not just Hallfolk but the Villagers too. So much inter-breeding, which is why Sol is keen to bring in new blood. He strongly encourages Hallfolk to go Outside for their partners. It’s also why he’s brought your mother here, I would imagine. As I said before, an addition to the gene pool.’

Sylvie was quiet at this. It seemed so cold and calculating, but she knew that Magus could be like that. The professor glanced at her, his wispy head in its straw hat bobbing about just like a little bird’s.

‘Not the only reason, of course. I should think that you, my dear, played a major factor in his making such an unusual invitation too. As the old saying goes – a moongazy girl is hard to find.’

Sylvie stared at him in amazement.

‘How do you know I’m moongazy? Magus didn’t even know about it when he invited us. He only found out recently himself.’

The old man smiled.

‘It’s your eyes, Sylvie. I remember Raven well, and you have exactly the same moonstone eyes. That girl drove those two half-brothers of mine wild with longing for her. There was something about her – a flash of quicksilver, a coolness of heart – that would not be warmed by their passion. They were both utterly obsessed with her to the exclusion of all else. I wonder if you’ll have the same effect on men as you grow older?’

‘I do hope not!’ said Sylvie in horror. ‘I’m not like that at all.’

Professor Siskin chuckled.

‘Ah, but neither was Raven. She wasn’t interested in the slightest, which made her even more desirable. All she wanted was to moondance, roam Stonewylde wild and free, and learn the craft with Mother Heggy. But anyway, that’s another story which I’ll tell you some other time. Don’t let it trouble you, Sylvie. You may look uncannily like the poor girl but I’m sure you’re very different inside. Raven was a strange little creature and you seem perfectly sane.’

They’d finally left the gravel drive and turned onto the track
towards the Village. Progress was very slow but Professor Siskin shuffled along amiably, chattering like a bird and only pausing to catch his breath. After some time the trees thinned a little and the first buildings, their wattle and daub walls patterned with heavy beams, came into sight. Sylvie loved being down here in the heart of the community. The Hall was beautiful of course, but had a totally different atmosphere to the Village. She smiled as she saw the plump thatched roofs nestling in the distance and smoke curling from the chimneys. Even in the height of summer the ranges must be lit for cooking. The track became a cobbled way and a group of wild-haired children ran past chasing an errant chicken, a terrier yapping excitedly at their heels.

‘I really love the Village,’ she sighed. ‘There’s something so safe about it.’

‘It’s terribly old, you know,’ twittered Siskin. ‘We’re talking Bronze Age, with evidence. There’s been jewellery, a dagger, belt buckles and such-like dug up in the Village gardens. In fact I have a theory that the Village was here before the Stone Circle was built, which would make it Neolithic in origin. But there’s no proof of that. Never been a proper archaeological dig here. Of course the river was a big factor in making it a habitable site, and the meadows so fertile, with woods too. Near the sea, but not exposed.’

‘I don’t understand. Why would the Village have been here before the Stone Circle? What makes you think that?’

‘I’ve spent a lifetime researching that period, early peoples and their religions. The Village Green – this one at least – is the clue. A circular clearing in ancient woodlands was the very earliest form of temple. Woodland deities, with the tribe worshipping at the very trees themselves. The circular cleared area inside, allowing them to live and worship in the same place. Life and religion interchangeable to those people.’

Sylvie looked at him in puzzlement, finding his speech hard to understand. He spoke so fast and missed out many words in his sentences, assuming a level of knowledge in his listener that was often misplaced.

‘Are you saying that the Village Green is what’s left of an ancient woodland temple?’

‘Indeed, indeed!’ he cried excitedly, his small pointed shoes skipping on the cobbles in a shuffle of enthusiasm. ‘Most people would see the Green and imagine maybe a meadow, with the trees planted around it for protection. But in fact the trees were there first, and the Green is an artificial clearing made in the middle. Not, of course, these trees themselves … although the yew could be. Did you know the yew tree regenerates itself? Grows from the original root, out of the old bole and gives birth to a new bole? But the tree itself is as old as the root, and there’s one in Perthshire, up in Scotland which is estimated to be about nine thousand years old. Many of the yews in churchyards are well over a thousand years old, often much older than the churches themselves … most of which are built over pagan places of worship anyway.’

He paused for a second to breathe, beaming at Sylvie, then continued his rapid chatter.

‘I don’t know about our yew by the Village Green because I’m no tree expert, but it really could be thousands of years old. Especially given that Stonewylde didn’t hack down every yew in sight to make longbows during the Middle Ages, or the Early Modern Period as we call it now. Far too sacred a tree for that, and anyway, even back then the Stonewylders didn’t get involved in every battle and war raging in the Outside World. We’ve always kept ourselves apart. And of course, whilst we’re talking trees, there’s the funerary yew too, another ancient tree …’

Sylvie stared at him in fascination. What an interesting man he was. She remembered her kiss with Yul under the yew tree. Knowing that the tree could be thousands of years old made that first kiss even more special. They’d finally arrived at the Green and saw a large group of Village men spread out in the familiar pattern of cricket.

‘Let us sit outside the Barn for a while and watch,’ suggested Siskin. He led the way around the grass to one of the wooden seats sheltered by the flint and stone walls of the Great Barn.
Sylvie sat down next to him and looked across at the figures on the grass. Her heart jumped when she recognised Yul – his very dark hair always made him stand out. He stood with a group of men, part of the batting team, and she noticed how much he’d grown. He no longer seemed a boy amongst men but was virtually one of them; in fact he was taller than some of them. She noted the brown skin of his arms, face and throat, the length of his powerful legs, and shivered. Siskin said nothing but smiled. All around them the Villagers relaxed in the warmth and peace of a Sunday afternoon.

‘The other clue, of course, is the Village pub. Jack in the Green.’

‘That must refer to the Village Green?’ said Sylvie, eyes fixed on Yul as he swung his muscular arms in mock bowls. He hadn’t noticed them yet and was entirely unselfconscious.

‘Strangely enough, it doesn’t,’ said Siskin, ‘although it would seem to. Jack in the Green is a medieval term referring to a May Day figure, the one who was encased in a green frame of shrubbery and boughs. The sacrificial male at the centre of the fertility dances and rites.’

‘Oh yes! We saw him at Beltane, in the middle of the men’s dance with sticks. He had his face blackened and he ended up completely trapped in a cage.’

‘Indeed!’ chuckled the old man. ‘I wish I were still able to visit and see that lovely ancient custom in May. But in fact, you know, the Beltane reference was merely a later interpretation of something far, far older – namely the Green Man. Jack in the Green, therefore, actually refers to the Green Man himself. I’m sure you know that he is literally the embodiment of the spirit of the woods, the woodland deity – Lord of the Greenwood. Which is what this Village Green is all about – an ancient woodland temple!’

He beamed at her triumphantly and she smiled back, nodding her understanding. It was interesting, of course, but nowhere near as interesting as watching Yul in action. He was batting now and Sylvie, though she knew little about cricket, could see that he was good. He swung the bat strongly, whacking the ball with
incredible power and precision. When he ran it was beautiful to watch; so fast and well co-ordinated. His team cheered him on as he ran, taking a risk, and made it to the crease just in time. Sylvie sighed.

‘So who is he, that fine young man with the dark curls?’

Sylvie looked across at the professor sharply but he twinkled at her encouragingly.

‘His name’s Yul. He’s a woodsman.’

‘Of course, of course. A woodsman. What else could he be? And he feels the same about you?’

She nodded, a sudden lump in her throat.

‘At least, he did. I’m not sure – something’s gone wrong between us.’

Siskin patted her hand kindly.

‘The course of true love never runs smooth. But it will be alright, my dear. Nobody could resist a moongazy girl like you. Look at him run! Poetry in motion.’

The Village Green was becoming quite busy as more people turned out to watch the cricket practice. Youngsters walked arm-in-arm around the edge of the Green, ignoring the game, whilst children raced about happily, many with wet hair. This puzzled Sylvie at first until she remembered the beach; they must have been swimming there or perhaps in the river. She realised that apart from the evening when she’d wandered down looking for Yul, this was the first time she’d been here for a normal visit without the Hallfolk as part of some festival or organised event. She felt, as she’d done when she’d blundered into the Barn that evening, conspicuous with her Hallfolk hair. Everyone else here today, apart from the professor, was Villager.

‘Come, shall we have a glass of cider at the Jack in the Green?’

He rose creakily and Sylvie dragged her eyes away from Yul, still batting skilfully and running superbly. She walked slowly by the elderly man’s side as they ambled around the edge of the Green towards the pub. Sylvie had never really looked at it closely before but noticed now that it was a beautifully maintained, very old building made of the same stone and flint as the Barn, with
a lopsided slate roof. The building was long and low, the upper-floor windows tucked right up under the eaves. The entrance, too, was very low with a massive piece of ancient wood, practically a whole tree, forming the lintel.

There were benches outside where men sat watching the cricket and drinking from tankards. Professor Siskin raised his hat to them politely and they all nodded back, some touching their forelocks in time-honoured fashion. Sylvie nodded shyly, unsure of the protocol, and then looked up at the sign swinging on a post. It did indeed depict a Green Man; leaves sprouting around his green face, his hair a halo of foliage. It reminded her of Magus at Beltane with his face paint and leafy head-dress.

Sylvie and the professor entered the cool, dark pub and she looked around with interest. It was large and yet snug inside due to the low, heavily beamed ceiling. There was a long counter, its wood black and smooth with age. Tankards hung on hooks all along the walls and great barrels lined the space behind the bar. There were many dark bottles too and several smaller casks. The place smelt strongly of cider and mead. Small tables and stools filled the open area, and around the walls were benches and high-backed pews. The uneven floor was flagstoned and brought to mind the floor in the porch that she’d been studying earlier, for it too was very worn down in places. She could feel the age of this building, imagining that even before the present walls were built an older structure must have stood here.

They went to the empty bar and a burly Villager stood up from his dice game with a group of old men.

‘Good afternoon, George,’ said the professor, removing his hat from his damp head and fanning himself with it.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ growled the man. ‘The usual?’

He moved round behind the counter and served Siskin with a tankard of cider and Sylvie a small glass of apple mead. They sat in a window seat and Siskin sipped at his cider appreciatively, smacking his lips.

‘Nothing beats the taste of this,’ he mused. ‘I have imbibed the very best the Outside World has to offer, but you can keep
your vintage wines and fine champagnes. Give me Stonewylde cider any day! Do you like the apple mead, Sylvie?’

‘It’s delicious! I didn’t realise mead came in different flavours. I’ve only had the ceremony mead and it’s nothing like this.’

He chuckled.

‘Ceremony mead is something very different, my dear. Magus adds a special ingredient to that brew. But honey mead is one of the staple drinks here. You must visit the Meadery and see how it’s made. And the Cider House too. The flavour of the mead depends on where the bees originally collected the nectar to make their honey – be it apple blossom, willow, clover, rose-petal or whatever. Then other fruits and flavours can be added before or after fermentation. So your mead is made with apple-blossom honey and mixed with some vintage cider, which gives it that lovely heady, apple taste. You’d like the cherry mead too, I expect, and blackberry. They’re all delicious. I’ll tell Sol of your new taste for mead and I’m sure he’d be delighted to bring some bottles up from the cellar for you to try.’