Alys Clare - Ashes of the Elements

Was she afraid? He would think no less of her if she were. How could he, when he was fearful himself? If she was afraid, she didn’t show it, which was in itself brave. As a commanding officer had once said long ago to Josse, there is no courage where there is no fear.

They had almost reached the far side of the oak grove. Entering the thick undergrowth, Josse strained his eyes for a sign of a path, however insignificant. If there were no break at all in the trees, then how were they going to proceed?

But there was a break. Hardly worthy of the name of path, a thin trickle of a track led away into the thicket. Pushing at tall, abundant bracken, which, Josse soon discovered, concealed an equal density of bramble, he led the way on towards the light.

After an unpleasant time of thrusting and edging forward, whilst keeping in mind the imperative need for silence, at last the undergrowth began to thin out. Staring ahead, Josse could see clear moonlight; they were approaching another grove.

The trees that led up to and encircled it were ancient and tall, and spaced far enough apart to allow for considerable new growth beneath them. There was, Josse thought in wonder, almost a sense of pattern about them, as if, aeons ago, someone had planted them with the intention of making an avenue. As if, wishing to honour this pathway that led to the holy grove, someone had marked it with a double row of the most sacred of trees …

For the trees that set the grove apart from the rest of the forest were, without exception, oaks.

Selecting one with a broader trunk than its fellows, Josse crept up to it, and the Abbess followed. Pressing themselves against the gnarled bark, they stared out into the moonlit space before them.

For what seemed like a long time, nothing happened.

The fire — built on a stone hearth right in the centre of the clearing — burned on brightly, sending out the occasional crackle which made them both jump. Beside it was a thick, heavy section of wood, a man’s height in length, remnant, perhaps, of a long-ago fallen tree. Staring at it, Josse was struck with the bizarre notion that it did not in fact lie there from any natural event, but that it had been placed there, after having been cut and shaped according to the dictates of some age-old ritual.

Unbidden, he recalled Sheriff Pelham’s words. They do things, when it’s full moon. And, even more worrying, the forest folk don’t like trespassers, specially not at full moon.

Was that what they were, he and the Abbess? Trespassers, about to witness some terrible rite? About to commit the forbidden infringement for which another man had been killed?

The folly of what they were doing — of what he had allowed the Abbess to persuade him to do — struck Josse like a poleaxe to the forehead. Turning, he said in a whisper, ‘Abbess, we shouldn’t be here, it’s-’

But, whatever it was, it was too late.

Someone had entered the grove.

* * *

At some time during their witnessing of what happened then, Abbess Helewise must have taken hold of his arm. He couldn’t have said exactly when; all he thought, both at the time and afterwards, was how very glad he was that she had done so. Had he not had that small human contact, he might have lost even the small amount of wits necessary to stop him doing something stupid.

Something such as responding to the blood thundering through his body and, in answer to the potent summons of all that he saw, rushing out into the moonlit clearing and begging to be allowed to join in.

Sheriff Pelham, absurd though it was, had been quite right.

Before Josse and the Abbess’s astounded eyes, just as he had said, things were indeed done under the full moon …

* * *

It began with a lone robed figure making a complete circuit of the grove. It was a woman, undoubtedly, for, apart from the long grey-white hair that hung down her back as far as her waist, she had a woman’s slight build. She held in her hand a bunch of some sort of herbs or seed-heavy grasses, and she had set light to the dried, twig-like fronds by dipping them into the fire. Waving the smouldering bunch to and fro in front of her as she slowly paced, she set clouds of smoke wafting out into the night air. Scented smoke — strongly, pungently scented.

She made her circle of the grove three times.

Then, putting the remnants of her herb bundle on to the fire, she picked up a long, straight wand. And, stepping as if in some dance, she moved all round the fire and the big log, making a pattern of some sort in the earth.

When at last she had finished, she moved to the fringes of the clearing and, for a moment, disappeared into the trees. When she emerged again into the moonlight, she was no longer alone.

She was leading by the hand a young woman. Dressed in a long flowing garment made of some sheer fabric, it was readily apparent that, beneath its folds, the girl wore nothing else. On her head, arranged on the glossy hair, was a thickly woven garland of leaves, grasses and flowers.

As the woman led the girl into the middle of the grove, the girl stopped for a brief moment and turned her face up to the night sky. As the rays of the full moon shone down on her, in the same instant Josse and the Abbess started in horrified amazement.

It was Caliste.

Josse felt the Abbess’s tension, was aware, without her having made the smallest move, that some protective instinct in her was about to prompt her into action. Bending his head so that he could speak softly right in her ear, he said, as forcefully as he could, ‘No.’

She understood. And, an instant after he had spoken, he sensed her relax.

Beckoning him close again, she said, ‘It’s not-’

Not what? He was not to find out, for, in the grove, something else was happening.

The humming had begun again, accompanied by a dull, steady drum beat. From the way the sound seemed to creep up on the awareness, Josse had an idea that it might have quietly been going on for some time. The volume was increasing rapidly, and, as it grew, the nature of the music was changing. Less like chanting, more like singing now, pure and sweet, as, at first in conflict with the chanting and then overcoming it, the melody rang out as if sung by the most perfect of heavenly choirs.

More fuel must have been added to the fire, for the smoke was thick now, its pale billows spreading right across the grove, penetrating under the trees to where Josse and the Abbess stood. It smelt of … what? Sage, and roses, and something that was reminiscent of anointing oil. Around the hearth, appearing and disappearing as the screen of smoke waxed and waned, giving the strange illusion that they were floating, were bunches of flowers tied with grass: poppies, deadly nightshade, and some leafy plant with small white blooms which Josse thought was hemlock.

The singing was much louder now. Somewhere out of sight in the trees there must be a great host of people, and-

The noise reached a deafening climax, drowning out the very power of thought. Then, with an abruptness that hurt the ears, it stopped.

In the utter silence of the moon-bathed clearing, the woman led the girl to the log. It, too, had been decorated with flowers, and at its head had been placed a pair of tall candles, burning with a steady flame.

It looked unmistakably like an altar.

The woman helped the girl to lie down, making for her a pillow of flowers. Then, moving round to stand behind the girl’s head, she took hold of the girl’s outstretched hands in what looked like a gesture of kindly companionship.

At first.

Then, as the woman’s grip moved to the girl’s wrists, it became clear that she was making sure the girl could not escape.

The singing began again. Now it was but a single voice, a woman’s, and it came from the altar.