I get myself ready. At sixteen, the priestesses have chosen me to be the Oracle. Seen as an honour, I am joyous, and ready to perform my duty to the Goddess, to be her advocate at the annual fair.
I pass the herbs I wrapped earlier in a piece of cloth to my sister so that she can hand them to me when I ask for them. I make my way to the river to pray. Needful I am, to prime myself well. After a few minutes of praying for guidance, I am ready. As Oracle, I will bring through messages from the Goddess to help the villagers with their daily lives and yearly forecasts.
A short and stout bearded man with a withered face, who wears a red tunic, black stockings and a floppy red-pointed cap, comes to collect us in a wagon. He helps Boudicca and me into the wagon and escorts us to the fair. When we find the Oracle’s Lodge; a shack built from bracken thatching and tree saplings, we go in, bending our heads as we enter. The folks who come here to listen to the Goddess’s messages carry absolute faith. I need to make sure that what I pass on are true prophecies from the Goddess, and not imagined forecasts from me.
Boudicca hands me the herbs, which I mix with hot water and let steep. Then I drink the vile tasting brew. Before long, I fall into a deep trance. I do not know how many village people come to spend their few minutes with me. Nor do I know how long I am under the spell of the Goddess since time does not exist in the realm where I linger. I remain in a trance while I deliver the messages I receive from the Goddess. Boudicca sees to it that each villager who comes holds my hands across the table. This is the only way I can draw their energy. It is up to my sister to make sure they do not stay longer than their appointed time.
When my service as the Oracle is over, I am drained of energy, so Boudicca lies me to rest inside the wagon to recover for a few hours before the long journey home. But only an hour or so passes before I wake, feeling refreshed. I push myself up and get my bearings. I am keen to explore the fair.
As I climb down from the wagon, to my surprise I find a young man standing at the foot of the steps.
‘May I?’ he asks, offering his hand. Startled, I gape at the gallant gentleman with a pale complexion. Smooth, shining-black hair, cut bluntly across his brows and just below his ears frame a wide smile and the bluest eyes I have ever gazed into. Tiny creases fan from their corners, aligning with his white-toothed smile. The lean and angular-chested smiling man places his long, slender-fingered hands around my waist and he lifts me down. The warmth of his touch excites me, and I flush. When I look into his eyes, I catch my breath. It is instant recognition. My soul beholds him as a man I loved a long, long time ago, back in the lost world of Atlantis. I think he feels the connection too, but judging by his momentarily puzzled expression, cannot make out what it is. I smile and thank him for his help.
He introduces himself as Áedán, and we exchange courtesies. I explore the fair with my newfound friend; a friend who, with my foreknowledge, I already know. We stroll and chat, and I am taken by his frankness and candour.
While we walk, Áedán delights me with interesting stories of how and where he grew up, and of the riches in life he hopes to amass. ‘I am the blacksmith’s son, and will one day take over the business. I am gifted in my craft, so it will be a successful business, more so than what it is now. I would like to show you my place of work.’ His eyes are proud and smiling, his enthusiasm refreshing. We wander the afternoon away. Only when I notice peasants herding pigs and goats back into carts and a few people still milling around, do I realise that the day is over.
‘May I see you again?’ Áedán asks. With the quickening of my heart, I become aflutter. I know not how to answer him. How can I tell Áedán he is my kindred spirit?
I do not lay bare my hidden knowledge, and it is against my better judgement that I agree, and we arrange a secret meeting.
I feel sure our meetings will become a regular tryst, and the prospect of this not only excites me; it also maddens me. An affair with my long-ago lover stirs feelings hazily familiar to me. Deep-rooted memories begin to resurface, giving me icy shivers. Áedán’s sidelong glance implies he is aware I am secretly excited, and this sends a thrill through me. His features are sharp yet agreeable to the eye. When he notices my visually distracted expression, his moderately thin lips break into a captivating smile.
Áedán’s round wickerwork home smells of a wintering forest, with an earthy, woody aroma, that is pleasing to the nose. I am nervous; it is our first secret meeting. My gentleman friend knows this; his gestures are tentative. He presents me with a flat package wrapped in cloth. The beautifully crafted comb Áedán has shaped from bone sits neatly in my palm. With coy admiration, I stroke its cold smoothness with my thumb.
Shyly, I comb the ends of my hair, trying it out as Áedán suggests, glancing up at him and blushing. ‘Thank you, Áedán.’
Over the next few glorious hours, my shyness abates and Áedán’s skilled, nimble-fingered hands introduce me to a lovemaking that takes my breath away. His teasing brings about a gasping that is likely to be heard within the hearing of anyone nearby. When I fall limp with dreamy exhaustion, my long-ago lover regards me with a pleased smile.
◊.◊.◊
My sister becomes aware of our love affair and tries to warn me. As a priestess in training, I am sworn to the Goddess and can never leave. Boudicca worries for me and tries to steer my thoughts away from Áedán and back towards my commitment to the Goddess.
Over the next few months, I struggle with my state of mind. I am torn between my duties and my selfish earthly desires. When I am with Áedán, time stops, and I live only in the present. Neither do I heed to my inner self caution, and I am treading on dangerous ground. I do not want to be in this quandary, nor do I wish for the earthly, daredevil feelings that drain me. I do not want to lose Áedán, but neither do I wish to lose my priestesshood.
On a bleak and woebegone day, I tell my beloved our love affair is over, saying it in the most loving way I can. ‘I know our affair of the heart will end in grief and sorrow, and I must stay with the priestesses and worship the Goddess. I am very sorry.’ The words spill rapidly from my mouth, my tears blurring Áedán’s bewildered, wide-eyed expression.
My lover begs me to run away with him and become his wife. I tell him I cannot, that I take my duty seriously, trying to reason with him that one who has been called to be of service can never leave, no matter how much she loves a man. I explain I am already married to a god, and that he will need to meet another who does not heed to the calling I have.
Áedán falls to pieces, his face contorting. He slumps to his haunches and covers his head with his arms, making a loud keening sound, his body shaking. Áedán’s grief pulls the strings of my heart so tight they are liable to snap.
◊.◊.◊
When I grieve over the young blacksmith with whom I fell in love three years ago, I tell myself I made the right choice. Yet the heartache has never quelled. Each night, before I lie down my head, I place my hand over my heart and bid my lover goodnight, and wonder if he does the same to me.
My devotion to the Goddess is firm, and my love for the Goddess is stronger than the love I hold for Áedán and my family, except Boudicca, neither of whom I see any longer. Together with the Goddess, my sister has been a pillar of strength for me. She is my supporter and protector. Without her and the Goddess, my self-worth carries no value.
After my dalliance with Áedán, my self-respect fell hard. How could I have become so involved with someone I barely knew? Yet, my inner spiritual self knows we have known each other for centuries.
For years I struggle with my strange dilemma, but pressing concerns in recent days become more important than my erstwhile love affair.
The troubling thoughts I had as a young priestess have resurfaced, and once again my slumber is ravaged with images of the worst kind. The pictures I see while I sleep show what lies ahead of us. The Goddess shows me, while I slumber, what will be brought to the fore.
There is a terrible unrest ahead for our group of priestesses. The Christian God is replacing pagan worship, and the Catholic Church is using cruel methods to shut down groups such as ours. Catholic priests are asking pagan priests and priestesses to convert to Christian worship and become Catholic priests and nuns. They believe our manner of worship is evil, and wish to sow the seeds of virtue upon us. Knowledge of this makes us nervous; we know that we cannot go against the Goddess, so we continue our daily rituals as usual. I have shared my concerns and frightful dreams with Boudicca, but the others are not aware of the terrible events that may soon befall us.
‘It’ll ne’er happen,’ Boudicca says, placing her hand on mine. I am aware that she is just trying to reassure me, but my inner knowledge is steadfast. I squeeze her hand and put on a brave face, telling her we need to get ready for our eventide ritual.
As the evening settles into night, Boudicca and I climb the uneven grassy mound to reach the stone circle where we perform our ceremonies. We weave between large round stones that push up through sharp blades of grass that are hard to see, making our trek difficult. At the stone circle, tonight under a glorious full moon blazing freely, we will worship our Goddess. Alas, the night air does not allow us to carry out our sacraments unclothed, so we dress in our warm white robes. We light small fires of even span inside the circle, and one in the centre.
Feidlimid, our leader, raises her arms. ‘Let us begin,’ she says, facing heaven’s dark void.
Under the smouldering light of the moon, we dance around the fires in a flurry of robes, chanting our hymns, our evensong sending us into a blissful daze. Priestesses outside the circle keep watch over us as we dance in among and around the fires.
It is hard to explain the joy, however short-lived it will be, but my worries dissolve as the Goddess’s spell lifts us all into Her heavenly arms. We are light and free under the inky night sky, chanting and praying to our Goddess, our divine spirit of life.
With eyes closed, we hear her soft, poetic ministrations. We hear the music of the angels sifting through God’s heavenly veil, cascading upon us. Soon I am captivated, and I sing and dance with happiness and gaiety, forgetting, for the time being, my private anguish.
We know nothing truly belongs to us; our gardens of produce, the water we drink, the ground on which we walk. We know that God grants us everything, and we are only His wardens of the land. God gave a part of Himself to us to do as we please, and we honour his gift of free will. With our Goddess’s teachings, we fulfil our duties to Her with grace, peace, thanksgiving and worship.
One by one, we leave the gathering, and the fires are left to flicker and die by themselves.
◊.◊.◊
A night or two later, I stand outside in the fading light, admiring the spectacle before me. Eventide’s dusk is both eerie and beguiling. The palisade of mountains casts its ghostly shadows, seizing the valley in a grip of cold. I feel the warmth of a hand slip inside mine, and find my sister standing next to me. We exchange smiles, and together we watch rich-crimson hues blend with tones of orange and purple, giving rise to an empyrean of fire. The sliding sun sinks below the skyline, swathing the heavens in a deep violet, and eventually darkness.
Boudicca and I give thanks to the Goddess and go to bed.
Deep in slumber, I wake to a chilling noise.
‘Lilith!’ Boudicca calls my name in a loud whisper. Her breathing is short and fluttery as though she finds it difficult to control. She is by my side and shivering, her arms wrapped tightly around me.
The noise becomes louder. We hear a repeated dull thud and the splitting of wood, and our door is knocked to the floor.
Lumbering black frames in the shape of men burst in. ‘Hard to see if anyone’s in ’ere.’ The voice is a low, harsh sounding growl.
Three lumpish men stand still, their hooded figures pitch black. Only their heads move, scanning the room trying to find us. My sister and I hold each other tight and do not breath. Then a man’s looming frame is upon us and I let out a quivering, terrified wail. Panicked, we both scream as they grab us from our bed and push us outside into the biting wind. Icy wet grass seeps through my stockinged feet and a raw ache travels up my legs. Men carrying torches of fire surround our housing while their accomplices break into the priestesses’ lodgings and seize them.
‘Get your paganist rear ends up in there!’ one shouts, the flames from his torch licking across his face, the sockets of his eyes black.
‘How dare you!’ an older priestess says to the man and he gives a mocking laugh. His companions echo him. The boorish men push us here and there, and, along with our high priestess and priestesses, they force us into carts and whisk us away. We travel at speed.
‘Oh Goddess, impart thy strength upon thee,’ Boudicca prays loudly. We grasp the sides of our cart, desperately trying to balance ourselves against the spine-shattering ride, in a cart led by two strapping, heavy-footed horses.
◊.◊.◊
Our confinement is in a crude, foul-smelling hole in the ground, where the men shove us. A short, stocky, balding man with missing teeth grabs my arm. ‘In you go,’ he says, and emits a guttural snort when I try to jerk my arm away. I am incensed by these individuals who behave like animals.
The men throw a lid of tree branches over our heads, and leave us there in the stinking, dark and damp pit for the rest of the night. No one sleeps. The priestesses form a tight circle for warmth, and we pray to our Goddess for strength. ‘Goddess, impart thy strength, and in strength, power to suffer, and to suffer for the truth, and in the truth, all light.’
Across our tight circle, I gaze searchingly into the face of our high priestess, but it does nothing to ease my fear.
‘Our Goddess ’ill save us,’ Boudicca says weakly, looking to the high priestess too for support. The high priestess is quiet, her lips moving in silent prayer. I squeeze my sister’s hand, mouthing that I love her. She dissolves into tears, and so do I.
A whole day goes by where we are brought no food or water. We group together for another night of wretchedness, which brings sickness to many of us.
The long night is at last broken by slivers of light slicing diagonally through our tomb’s lid of dead and dying leaves. We gratefully welcome the token of warmth the sun’s rays render us, however feeble. Hours drag while we huddle together. We listen in silence to the muted chatter among the menfolk milling around above our heads, hearing every now and then an eruption of laughter, likely brought about by an obscene comment about us. The sun is high above us, marking the time of day, and we wonder if we are again to suffer another day without food or water.
Someone lifts the lid; dead leaves shower us as meaty hands pull it aside. Our dank pit is flooded with fresh air and sunlight, which we inhale deeply at once. They lower a makeshift ladder, fashioned from dry branches, into the pit and demand we climb out.
The ill-mannered men escort us to a Catholic priest. Dishevelled, we stand before him in a cluster, as a gesture of solidarity.
The priest, standing above our heads on the pulpit, erect, looks down his nose at us. Aside from a ring of peppery grey hair, his scalp is shaved, in devotion of his Christian beliefs. His alb, which may once have been white, is a dull grey, and reaches to his well-worn rawhide brógs, a line of brown along its hem as though the priest has tramped through a boggy mire. A heavy silver cross, the Pectoral Cross of Ireland, hangs from his neck, close to his heart, a green-coloured stone embedded in its centre.
‘You have a choice,’ he states with forceful loftiness, ‘of converting to the Christian faith. If you shall not abide, we shall sentence you to death for performing witchcraft.’ Our group of women gasp in horror. ‘The punishment is flogging, followed by the burning at the stake.’
Boudicca and I cup our hands over our mouths and stare wide-eyed, unable to believe our ears.
The high priestess wrings her hands and pleads. ‘Please, Father, we do not perform witchcraft. We simply worship our Goddess. Father, our hearts are pure.’
The priest pays no heed. ‘Enough! You are performing Devil’s work. God’s disciples shall not be tarnished by witches. Tomorrow you shall burn to ashes.’ The high priestess draws in her breath sharply while the priestesses and I utter frightened exclamations.
Outside the church, the men once again grab us with their meaty hands. We do as they say, for we are all in shock. They order us back to the holding pit.
Just as I begin to climb back down, a ghastly man with rotten teeth and with the breath of a dead animal stops Boudicca and me. ‘Sisters aye, I tink we’ll ’av some fun with you two.’
Horrified, I turn to Boudicca, whose face has drained of colour. Sick to my stomach, I thump my fists at the man as he and three other men lead us across a field to a moss-covered stone hut, the cries and protests of our priestesses falling away. The men shove us inside the hut that we assume is their living quarters. It smells of sweat and filth. Once inside, we become aware of other beastly looking men.
Boudicca and I cling to each other, but the men force us apart and they push my sister down onto a bed of straw.
My angst gives way to anger. ‘Let us be!’ I yell at them. The sight of a man ripping my sister’s clothing off her enrages me, and I attack him from behind, wildly scratching his arms and face. I am so beside myself that I foam at the mouth.
The man elbows me. ‘Get off me, you witch. Seamus, deal with this wolfess, will ya.’
Hands tear me off Boudicca’s assailant and I am thrown across the room. Nimbly, I scramble to my feet and try again to get to my sister, but Seamus blocks me, planting one hand on the wall behind me.
‘Aha, who’s gotcha now, my wild wolfess?’ The hateful man runs his grimy knuckle down my cheek and smiles menacingly, his sweaty upper lip close to mine. When he plunges his tongue in my mouth and thrusts it about, he transfers spittle; the vile-smelling slick makes me gag.
In among the muck of the crowded hut, multiple, stinking men — animals — rape my sister and me, their repeated grunts sounding disconnected and hollow as I float in and out of murky consciousness. Hazily I rouse, and strain my head in the direction of my sister, whose head is being rhythmically shunted against the wall’s rough stone surface. Her eyes roll back.
‘Stop!’ I yell with all my might, which is met with sneers and grating laughter.
‘Once you’ve worked ye bods, let’s cleave te witches up.’ The man’s suggestion is followed by wild hoots and whistles.
◊.◊.◊
My sister and I are raped time and again. When the men are spent, our suffering does not end. They hold us down and thrust broken animal bones into our private parts, the sharp edges tearing my insides to ribbons with an insufferable stinging pain. Severely weakened, I utter a feeble cry. It is a cruel, savage assault beyond belief. After the harrowing attack, the hut is quiet.
As I lie in a pool of my blood, I reach across to Boudicca and clutch her hand. It is limp. My sister, I realise, is dead.
In agony and barely able to move, I crawl to her, crying, ‘Ah me Boudicca, don’t leave me nigh!’ In my anguish, I know that my sister has escaped the far worse ordeal that is yet to come.
Sobbing, and with my heart physically hurting, I whisper in her ear, ‘See you in Heaven, my brave sister.’
◊.◊.◊
Maimed are the high priestess and priestesses for holding onto their beliefs; gentle souls who underwent extreme pain, for they too, after enduring a whipping, were violated in the most despicable manner. Despite this, the union of our devout group of women does not break. We will never consider betraying our faith. Indeed, our bond strengthens.
We pray together for the soul of my poor sister whose body the sinful men have carelessly flung onto a pyre of sticks and logs, ready for burning. She receives no mercy from the Catholic priests. In our miserable dark and dank cell, they finally give us food, passing stale bread down the hole to our open, grateful hands, along with vessels of muddy-coloured water. The smell of rotten eggs suggests the water has been fetched from an old well. A priestess pulls apart the bread and passes a piece to me. We give thanks, aware that it is to be our last supper.
Throughout the last hours of our imprisonment, we clutch each other’s hands and pray and weep and sing to our Goddess. In the early hours, we fall silent and listen to the growl of the wind. In my ruminations, doubts creep into my head. I begin to wonder if this is punishment for my love-affair with Áedán, and I pray in earnest for the Goddess to forgive me.
Though it is still dark, we hear shuffling sounds above our heads. Blunt voices break the early morning quiet.
Two men, talking about our capture, send me into shock. ‘How much did ye pay Ơ Dálaigh’s boy?’ one of them asks.
‘Tree silver pennies,’ comes the other man’s reply.
‘Te sweet young pussies were worth every penny,’ the first man crows.
‘Aye, I tink so too,’ his companion replies, giving a contemptuous laugh.
Their conversation brings me to my knees. In my fetid cell, I learn that it was the love of my life, Áedán, who betrayed us. From the two men’s gossiping, I learn that my spurned lover was sour and bitter towards me, angry that he could not have me as his wife. When given the opportunity to divulge the whereabouts of pagan worshippers, he told the church where our coven of women lived. The Christian priests who were spreading tales, had told Áedán’s father that pagans will burn in the fires of hell if they did not convert to the Christian God. The blacksmith shared the information with his son, and Áedán jumped at the chance to get his revenge upon me.
◊.◊.◊
Once we are pulled from our cell, the men lead us towards our punishment. My legs give way when I see the stake set in readiness in the centre of a stack of dry logs and branches. Coarse hands drag me towards it. Fear grips me like a vice and clouds my mind. Dully, I hear cheering from the mass of onlookers, so-called Christians who have come to witness our persecution. I faint. When I come to, I have been tied to the stake. An icy dread floods my veins. I force my head to the side, towards the stench of burning meat, and heave at the sight of the burning bodies of the high priestess and two priestesses. I choke on my vomit.
‘This cannot be happening!’ I scream, looking to the heavens.
Many faces stare at me; hungry, wild eyes watching me suffer. Then I see him among the people.
Áedán watches, on his face an expression of sheer horror as the fire besets me. Through the flames, I glower back at him, resolutely ignoring the indescribable pain. The fire travels swiftly up my body, melting my skin and broiling my insides. Destroying me. The inferno sends me insane. I open my mouth and let forth a scream that curdles the air.
◊.◊.◊
As my soul leaves my body, I am again conscious. The pain has gone, and I float above the hideous scene.
Only when the fire devoured me did Áedán break down and weep. Too late. My rejected lover betrayed me and sentenced me to this vile and wretched death. I feel no mercy for him.
The mindless, cruel, torturous killing of me, the taking of my sister’s life, and the deaths of our beautiful priestesses is a harrowing sight. In our quiet little group, we wished only to keep to ourselves, praying and serving the Goddess.
◊.◊.◊
From my otherworldly realm, I discern that centuries will pass before Áedán and I are together again on God’s earth. He will hold this betrayal against himself, as his soul knows he should never have punished me this way.
His soul has much learning to do.
