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836 A.D., Hibernia
Dara opened the weatherworn door of her rustic, circular hut and wandered outside. She closed her eyes, deeply inhaling the fresh air. The gentle wind smelled of drying leaves and earth from the recent harvest. Opening her eyes, she strolled down the leaf-lined path as the refreshing breeze exhilarated her skin. The heat of the autumn days receded into cool evenings that she spent at the River Bóinne taking cleansing swims.
The path to the riverbank was a peaceful walk through the forest not far from her home. Some of the folk from the village of Droicheada believed the legends about the area being haunted by spirits of ancient Celts who came to this land, while others thought her a mystic because she was the Priestess of the Sisters of the Stone Circle. Either way, she didn’t worry about anyone watching her while she followed the dark path in the twilight.
She thought about the other women who participated with her in celebration of Samhain, one of the four fire festivals of the year. These women were wives or widows of farmers and soldiers from the baile, who secretly joined her at the stone circle in Brugh Na Bóinne for special rituals. The women performed the ancient mystical arts for their personal enrichment—in secret—so not to alert the church to their activities, or their husbands for that matter. While many people from Droicheada shunned her for her practices, some sought her help as a healer.
Dara sat on a large tree stump at the edge of the river and untied the laces on her leather shoes, setting them on the ground beside her. She unbuckled the brooch from her green woolen cloak. The material slid off her shoulders, down her body, and landed in a heap at her feet. She shivered as the cold night air chilled her skyclad flesh.
Stepping to the riverbank, Dara slowly placed her feet into the water and little waves lapped against her ankles. Small hairs on the back of her neck stuck straight out, a chill running up her spine. She shuddered and quickly scanned the bank while the river rippled along. Frogs croaked nearby. Shorelines were considered sacred meeting points, where spiritual forces could link directly with the living.
To free herself of the restless sensation, Dara closed her eyes, took a deep breath and plunged into the brisk water, skimming under the top of the waves.
She resurfaced for air and pushed her hair back from her face. While she tread water to keep afloat, Dara watched her breath rise like steam over the water, remembering the feast of Samhain festival she and her Sisters of the Stone Circle performed two nights prior.
They’d welcomed the runner who brought the flaming torch from the High Druid’s sacred fire. They’d swayed rhythmically to the bodhrán drum beat during their ritual divination as the sweat-drenched runner set ablaze the oak branches in the fire pit and then departed.
Dara brought the requisite herbs to purify the air for the spirits during the ceremony. She stood entranced by the flames. The heat of the bonfire seemed drawn to her as she neared the fire, bent and ignited the tips of the plants. She inhaled deeply as the air filled with the scent of myrrh, along with a hint of heather for the closing ritual of the ceremony. She placed the glowing herbs in the cauldron for divination. Still, the flames of the bonfire felt like they wanted to burn the bare skin of her arms.
A sudden buzzing of insect wings by her face startled her back to her swimming.
Sighing, Dara reclined, luxuriating in the way her body felt as she floated on water, her breasts reaching upward to the moonless night. The refreshing water rippled over her body. Her nipples peaked into hardened flesh against the cool breeze that licked them dry as it passed over her body.
Gazing at the stars flickering against the indigo of the night, she imagined herself floating into the sky. Half listening to the whisper of buzzing insects, Dara hummed a little song to herself. The water lapped against her, and she finally relaxed, letting the tranquility of nature surround her again.
“Thank you,” she whispered to the frog that croaked loudly from the shore after Dara finished her little tune.
She recognized the constellations of late autumn. From the corner of her eye, something different appeared. Dara lost her concentration and choked on the water in surprise.
She tread water and watched a star, with a blazing white tail behind it, streak across the nighttime sky. The star didn’t fade away like most heavenly bodies that shot across the sky for brief moments when harvest time neared. This star stayed high and traveled in an arc.
Noticing the sounds of nature had ceased their soft rhythm, she quickly swam back to the edge of the river, water dripping from her body as she climbed out. Dara ran back to the stump, grabbed her woolen cloak and wrapped it around her shivering form. With trembling fingers, she stuck the pin of the metal brooch back through the loop. She sat on the stump, shoving her shoes onto her feet, half-tying the laces around each ankle. She frequently glanced up to stare at the unfamiliar spectacle.
“Is it a good omen?” she wondered as she hurried back to the hut. What mystical prophecy might come of this enchanted light in the sky?
Once home, she lit the beeswax candle on the small table. She uncorked the bottle of mead on the table, poured some of the light amber liquid into a wooden goblet and took a long sip. Savoring the sweet drops on her lips, she stretched her back while the liquid began to warm her. She set the goblet down on the table next to the book she needed.
Dara eased herself on to the stool next the table, opened the well-worn, russet-colored leather-wrapped cover, and searched the vellum for information of a star. The book was a journal of the past fire festival celebrations, herbal remedies, celestial occurrences, and divinations of Goddess Danu that had been handed down for generations by those women accepting the role as Priestess.
She turned the pages carefully, as the corners had curled with age. She found a small reference to star showers streaming from the sky, normal early harvest season occurrences, so she kept scanning the parchment pages carefully for other references.
Finally, near the middle of the book, in the lower right margin of the page, she spied a depiction, a star with a tail flying behind it. It was under the year 760 A.D. A small notation of the date, “Beltane plus twenty-one days,” had been made next to the star.
Dara calculated the date to be just over seventy-six years prior. She examined the book further but found nothing more about the star.
The mead had finally taken away the chill and relaxed her muscles. Dara closed the book and drummed her fingers on the table while wondering, with trepidation, what the star foretold.