The Keeper of Stories

The Fires of Beltane

Eavan follows to stand by me.

Then my eyes travel back up to the stag king and in that moment, in that moment I know I have caught his eye too.

We both stand, mesmerized, though in truth neither could see the other too clearly.

And yet we know.

We sense.

We feel.

And as the sun disappears completely the fires start slowly to replace it, lighting up the sky and signalling the start of the sacred ceremony.

On cue, behind me, the war party begin to play on the bodrums left in the clearing and above me, the holy chant begins.

No longer able see up the hill properly I turn away from the Oak king towards Eavan, my heart now threatening to beat out of my chest as she blesses the mead and I pour in the spirit dust.

She presses the mead to my lips as the chanting and drumming become louder while above me on the top of the hill, the scene is being repeated by the Oak King and his attendant.

The drink takes effect quickly in an eyeblink I have left Enat behind, my robes dropping away from me and the world swirling as colours flew around me as the voices and drums start to fall away.

And so I am the goddess.

With Eavan's steadying hand on one side and a soldier holding my arm on the other, I move forward up the hill through the grove. I don't glance sideways but in my mind, it is my Da holding me, helping me to my marriage. Except I am no longer Enat and this is not my wedding.

I only have eyes for what is in front of me now.

My King.

My God.

The great god of fire.

Bel.

He stands alone on the altar.

Waiting.

Waiting for his queen.

Waiting for me.

His robes are gone.

His face is masked.

His body is adorned with mud and ancient symbols like mine but while I was crowned and garlanded with flowers, my king is covered in the leaves of the ancient oaks.

He looks more powerful now without clothing.

Oozing vitality, strength and magic like the god that he is.

As I move closer I make out the definition of his chest and arms, the strength of his legs.

The man is tall, lean and muscular – a powerful warrior.

A god among men.

His sword bobbed between his legs, long and large and becoming ready as he watches me approach.

I no longer shivered.

My stomach has settled.

I feel no fear

And I am no longer Enat.

As I reach the altar an arm, obviously made strong by swordplay, reaches down and grabs to lift me effortlessly on the rock to join him before we join together.

I know, from experience that behind me the warriors will be turning away still thumping a rhythm on their skin-drums and the holy brothers and sisters are dropping their robes to dance sunwise around the two large fires that are now well alight a red blaze against a dark sky.