The Serpent Queen

Grey light of Midsummer's dawn steals through the chamber. A shadowy robed figure enters, bearing a single rushlight, which reflects back the light in twelve pairs of sleepy eyes. Outside, a lone lark trills its joyful song heralding the coming of dawn. No voice is spoken as the acolytes are gently but firmly woken fully and are led from the sleeping chamber through winding corridors down to the waterfalls basin. They shiver in the pre-dawn light as; one-by-one they cast off sleeping skins and are lathed by the icy water. A single chime echoes off the rocks as they step out to be warmed by fleecy robes. In silence they follow the High Priestess and her attendants into the dining area, now bare expect for a white-clothed table. A servant enters, her bare feet making no sound as she brings in the great mead-pitcher.

Now they step forward to receive the warmed mead in great silver goblets, warmth spreading from head to toe, for this is the sacred cup and its heady draught works quickly on empty stomachs. Not a drop is spilled on this most hallowed of days, to do so would anger the Lady herself. Heads spinning slightly, they stand naked, the green and blue tattoos standing out against pale skin. Attendants bear the white woollen dresses and as they lift their arms the sleeveless dresses drape their bodies, pooling around their bare feet.
The High priestess makes a single gesture and the twelve virgin maidens fall into line behind her.

Now up the steep pathways they glide soundlessly for they know the ritual and to break it would mean a swift death. Only their ragged breathing would betray them as the steps wind ever upwards, but this is allowed, the Lady would not expect them to be unmoved by the steep climb. Only the High priestess seems undaunted by the climb, but she has had a lifetime of sacrifice to mould her into an unbreakable being.

Eventually the solemn parade emerges into the sunlight of early day, the maidens trained not to show feelings but still in awe of this most sacred of places. Only the initiated have ever stepped foot here before now. On a wide green swathe the chalk circles shine brightly with a pinkish hue as the hilltop catches the rays of dawn. Once again the mead-cup is passed around, this time by the warden of the secret circle, an aged crone well past the age when she should have gone to the Lady. Her skin browned by the sun, wrinkles creasing her old face; nevertheless she seems as hale as the priestess herself.

The dew is still damp on the grass as they form a line; twelve maidens selected six moons ago, only those that have started their courses and are judged pure by the Lady are accepted.
Now a slow drumbeat starts to pound and with no clear thought they react, as they should. From the start of the line, which weaves its way around the hilltop, they start to dance, hesitant at first but gaining in confidence as they feel the Lady calling to them. The line turns and twists; now forward then doubling back on itself, a spiral within another spiral, as the world dictates. Mingling with the drums a sound now rises, clear as a bell to start, but twisting and weaving as the dance goes on. Flute-calls now soft, then strident as their feet gain speed, each winding in and out of the circle, unaware that the chalk stains their feet as they gather momentum.

The song starts as a chant, one they had not been trained in, but comes as naturally as breathing. None knows, or cares who started it, as their feet now pound the chalk trail, it ripples in and out of the dance. The drums grow wilder; heads spin but keep their feet even as the song reaches out to the heavens, the chorus a heartbeat with their own.
'Yr'n argolwendd sarff,' it rings out, spinning through time and space. "Hail the serpent Lady,' as they stamp their feet and follow her trail, the head eating the tail in endless motion.
The sun rises in the sky as they dance on, now feverish with feet starting to bleed, the white and red blending together. Another chime rings out and slowly the dancers make the final circle, coming to rest at the Lady's tail.

The High priestess nods in satisfaction, her acolytes have done well. Now she leads them down softer trails, so the green grass can soothe their tired feet. They walk as if in a dream, the mead blunting tiredness and pain. Once down from the sacred place the journey winds between the path of the standing stones, a good hour's walk into the village. They must not falter on the way. The stones raise high up into the sky, each a pair that runs on a straight pathway. Who set them there and why troubles her not, she feels the power in them and the maidens feel it as well. Legend has many tales about the stones, there are still a few of the pure-blood dark inhabitants that were there when her distant ancestors came to this land, but of the stones they make no tales.

The worship of the serpent queen has taken over and all in this land embrace it now. The stones form a passage, straight as the crow flies, to the village of stones. Now the maidens walk in solemn file, the stones rearing high above their heads, a tribute to older gods maybe, but all know the world is a serpent, coiling back on itself in an endless circle of life. As the sun and moon follow the serpent's coils, so must every living being.

The day is warm now and the passage through the stones an easy one as they cast short shadows to cool and cheer the heart. The maidens follow at an easy pace, their gaze straight ahead, untroubled by the vast stones that rear above them. The power hums strong now; in every fibre of her being she feels it as it arches from stone to stone. The drummers and the flute-players keep up a steady marching song and if sometimes a shade of doubt troubles her spirit, then they boost it with the Lady's song.

They enter the village at a few hours past noon, the skies hold clear and the sun beats down. The feet of the maidens are still a little sore, but the mingling of chalk and blood only add to the mystique. She calls her attendants around her as the maidens stop at her command. All must be in place and she sends them on their errands.
Around the smaller stones a circle of hides spread, while the great chieftain comes to meet her. His body glistens gold and brown, while the great gold torque rests like a featherweight on his muscled neck. They greet each other in the manner of their tribe, hands folded across the chest with the palms out. He leads her to the great seeing stone where cloth of blue has been cast in its shadow, waiting for her and the acolytes. She sees the pit and knows that all is well. Her stomach rumbles but ignoring the frailties of the body she leads her maidens to where they must sit. Their glassy eyes tell her that the mead has done its work and now they are content to rest in the shadow of the great stone.

Later on there will be much feasting and drinking when the right time comes, but for now she must remain vigilant and regal, as befits her status as High priestess. She calls for her druids; they had spent the previous night much as she did, in prayer and fasting. They come to her by her maiden's bower, assuring her that all is going as it should and the Brun, or dark men, as they call the natives of this land, are prepared once again for the ritual. Her maidens have rested enough, now is the time for the dance to encircle the village and pay homage to the stones.

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Rhirradan sat silent, her gaze fixed on the stones, the overhanging trees giving some shelter from the day's heat. Her feet were sore and still bleeding freely but she tried to put it out of her mind. At fourteen she came to her courses late and hadn't expected to be chosen as one of the honoured twelve. Her mind was still underneath the cloud of the drink, but her wits were sharp and it was beginning to wear off. Above all else she longed to be the chosen one this day, to wear the torque of gold, not the silver and to reap the rewards of being the serpent-queen even if it was only for a year. Her family were all dead; her parents killed by warring tribes and her little sister taken to be a maid in the house of the chieftain. She had seen him that day, before they had taken her to the temple, where she had expected to be a mere servant. Now she saw him again in her mind, a man of middle years but still in the prime of his life. He had the golden hair of the pure Celts and a body to match, lean muscles, bronzed body and eyes as grey as the winter sea.
As a servant she would never feel the body of a man held close to her, as a chosen maiden her only hope was to be chosen as this year's queen. After the ritual came the golden evening, the serpent-queen would mate with the chieftain and if his seed took on her body then she would be honoured above all women. A female child would go the priestess but a male child would make her honoured and she would lie in his house as one of his favourite wives.

She knew of the ritual, of course, she could well be dead before the day was over, people gossiped and the High priestess was too far above them to give heed to the whispers. The mead was to drug them and lay fear aside, but her and fear were well acquainted, after seeing her parents speared and their heads took as trophies, nothing could make her quiver again. She'd take her chances or die in the attempt.

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Once more the maidens were called to their feet, the dance would be led by them, in and out of the stones, endlessly twirling until heart and body were near to collapse. Only in this way could the Brun be certain of the power of their masters, the ones that had come across the great sea and brought new ways of life and worship. Already they were starting to breed with the incomers and the small dark men produced offspring of various sizes and shapes.
Soon they would die out, a lost people who only wanted to till the land and keep their cattle. They knew nothing of wars and fighting, or the bright iron of swords and spears. Their knowledge of things celestial were kept to themselves, fearing a war without ending until the earth was turned to dust.

The people danced amongst the stones, Celts with Brun. Mixed races following the maidens until, tired with feet now bleeding again, they sank down as the sky turned towards evening.
Now the people of the village gathered round the seeing stone. Another, more potent brew was passed around, even the children taking small sips, for so the druids and the priestess cast their spells of deceit. Magic was real, but brews helped those who could not see.

The maidens in their fine white dress rose as one on the command of their elders. An ancient druid cast his hands into the pit and brought forth a queen among snakes. Her scales glittered with green, brown and a touch of gold. Her eyes gleamed with the light of the evening star; red it was, red as her forked tongue. He chanted slowly and the High priestess joined in, calling on her Lady to choose a maiden on this, the longest of days and shortest of nights. For so the light would ever grow and in the fastness of winter's nights would be a hope for light anew.

The great snake cast her scaly head around; she was all of four feet and her hiss made the strongest man there tremble. The maidens stood without flinching as the queen regarded them with her hooded eyes. Slowly she moved forwards, her tongue darting to and fro.
She slithered forwards; her gaze hypnotic and then started to wind herself round the limbs of a tall and stately maiden. On she crept, from the feet up wards, lifting the white dress as she caressed her sex and moved onwards between the breasts until she wrapped her coils around the neck. There she swayed for a moment and finally settled down.

The High priestess gave a yell of triumph, the snake had chosen and once more the circle would go on. The girl was older than she had expected, but the God had chosen. Now another young woman was brought forward, clothed in green she walked with her head held high and the crowd murmured at her passing. Her hair glinted with auburn highlights in the sinking sunlight, she was of mixed breed and popular with all the village people.
But the law still held and as she was led forward to the altar stone, not a word was spoken in her defence.

Rhirradan felt the smooth body of the snake caressing her and her nipples stood out with arousal. She had to steel herself against what she knew was to come. A cup was placed in her hands but she pushed it away, if she couldn't be as brave as the former queen then she didn't deserve the honour placed on her. As a queen she walked forward and received the golden torque from the hands of the druid. Clasping it around her neck she stood tall and proud. The sun was going down over the nearby hills, taking the jewelled dagger she lifted it high, catching the last rays of the sun before she plunged it into the heart of the Lady's offering. Tonight she would lie beside the man she loved and the circle would be complete.

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