Chapter 8 Research Circle #2
After we all finished dinner and Richard took our plates away, we moved to the sitting room next door.
It almost looked like a different room than it had in the morning.
With the sun down, the only light source in the room was a roaring fire in the central fireplace.
The breeze had settled, and drowsiness took over as I sank into the velvet lounge chair, the cushion swallowing me up.
The Trees sat on a loveseat next to the hearth, while Leone rolled up next to them. Nina took a seat farthest from the fire on the chaise lounge, spreading her lanky limbs over it as if preparing for a nap.
“All right, whose turn is it today? I want to get this over with sooner rather than later. I have a corpse rotting in the lab. If I don’t brine it tonight, it’ll stink up the whole House by tomorrow morning,” Nina said, picking dirt out of her fingernails.
“I’ll go; I haven’t presented in a while,” Sequoia offered. “Please, Nina, tend to whatever you have in the lab. We don’t need a repeat of what happened during summer solstice.”
“Hm, something about the hot summer and taxidermy just doesn’t go together, does it?” Nina mocked as Sequoia grimaced.
The entry door opened, and the room fell silent. The Meister walked in, his steps lagging behind the tapping of his cane. He lowered his briefcase to the floor next to the chair I was sitting in.
“I’m afraid you have my chair, Ms. Blackburne.”
“My apologies, Meister,” I said as I rose and moved to Nina’s chaise. She slid her legs down so I could take the space next to her. I cursed myself internally. Why hadn’t the students corrected me? Unless . . . they wanted to see me subverting the Meister’s authority, testing me.
“Now, let’s open the Circle,” the Meister motioned for all to rise. “Sub rosa,” he said.
“Sub rosa,” everyone echoed, then took their seats again. Under the rose, or in secret, I translated.
“We have a newcomer to the Circle, as you all see. I trust that everyone has done their part to welcome Ms. Blackburne to Foresyth,” the Meister spoke, his eyes drifting around the room.
“Ms. Blackburne, we are bound here to this Circle in scholarly trust. Your ideas, no matter how controversial or disruptive, will be kept to this Circle. We are here to discuss in earnest and without fear. We are also here to exercise unbiased judgment in our evaluation of academic merit.”
“Thank you for welcoming me, Meister. I’ll observe for this first one, given that I’ve only begun my studies today.”
The iconograph I found in this very room swirled behind my eyelids still. I blinked and thought better of asking the group about the hanged man’s symbol. Regardless of what the Meister said about secrecy, this was not a safe space for me.
“I’ll begin,” Sequoia said. “In my study of bardic incantations and their role in first-century BCE polytheistic culture, I’ve become acquainted with the Celtic Druids.
Not much is known about them given their oral traditions, but I’ve found a few bards that could be interpreted as magickal incantations. I wanted to see if the group agreed.”
“Lovely, thank you, Ms. Nightingale, for the proposal,” said the Meister. “Anyone else?” He looked around expectantly, waiting for other topics. “Very well, then. Proceed. The Circle is yours.”
Sequoia continued reading from a rose-colored journal, “Holding lineage to the original Norse Druids, Eochaid Dála experienced an analepsis in which he heard a hymn. A hymn, I believe, was acquired or written during a shamanic experience of his ancestor.”
“That can’t be right. The term ‘Shamanism’ originated with the Tungus-speaking people in Siberia. Connecting them to the Celts would be anachronistic,” Leone said.
It was the first time I’d heard him speak since breakfast.
Sequoia cleared her throat. “I mean Shamanism as a universal conceptual framework for practices that involve people—shamans—serving as intermediaries between the spirit world and the real world,” she retorted at Leone.
This seemed to quell Leone’s rebuttal, and she proceeded.
“Through these experiences, Eochaid surmised that the Druids would go into dreamlike trances in order to gain wisdom from the Otherworlds. As you all know, the act of entering such an ecstatic state is called soul flight. But these dream-states, typically altered states due to hallucinogens, made it difficult to remember the findings from these flights. So, they created songs to better remember them. Here’s the passage I found in a documented account:
Anam ar siúl, i gcoillte is gleannta,
Sióg le héisteacht, draíocht le brath,
An t-anamchéad, solas faighte.
“I’ve been working on a translation of this song, and here’s what I have so far:
Soul on a journey, in forests and glens,
Fairy whispers, magic to sense,
Free from the body, enlightenment gained.”
Sequoia’s voice softened as she recited her translation, her gaze drifting, as if she was transported to some distant forest or mist-covered glen right there in the sitting room.
For a moment, the Circle seemed spellbound, as if we were all catching glimpses of the Otherworlds through her incantation.
“And you’re trying to use this passage to prove that the Celtic Druids were shamans and engaged in practices of soul flight?” Nina asked, her tone sharper and more probing.
“Exactly,” Sequoia replied, her excitement untampered. “In another passage, it explicitly uses the word léim, which translates literally to ‘jump’ or ‘leap’ but could be interpreted in context to mean transcend. It’s not a word that inspires physical movement, but rather a spiritual one.”
“Impressive translation, Ms. Nightingale. Though I do wish your Latin were as good as your Gaelic,” the Meister interjected, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
Nina spoke next, tapping her chin thoughtfully.
“I’m not an expert in astral projection or soul flight, but the passage, if your translation holds, seems like reasonable evidence for shamanistic Celts.
I haven’t seen any research on it, so it could make an interesting paper.
” She sounded genuine, not merely appeasing Sequoia.
Aspen leaned back with a finger to his chin, looking less than convinced.
“I think it’s conjecture. We don’t have any physical evidence that the Celts used songs for ritual purposes—just the Eochaid account, which was published, what, three hundred years after the Romans overtook the Celts?
And he got this knowledge through some ancestral recollection? ”
Leone nodded. “Exactly. It makes research on the Druids especially challenging. Oral traditions are difficult to substantiate. Perhaps stick to a culture with more tangible records, like the Greeks or the Sumerians.”
The Meister looked over at me, his gaze inviting a response. “And what do you think, Ms. Blackburne?”
The weight of everyone’s eyes found and settled on me. I hesitated, aware of the academic alliances already forming. Siding with Sequoia and Nina would be easy, yet I didn’t want to risk my academic integrity in favor of politics. If honesty was my only reliable card, I might as well play it.
“Shamanistic practices are ancient and predate the Tungus,” I said slowly, watching Sequoia’s hopeful expression.
“It’s entirely plausible that the Druids engaged in those practices.
But without physical evidence, like an account from a Druid herself, there’s little weight to the argument that the song was part of a shamanistic ritual. It’s speculative at best.”
Sequoia’s expression faltered while Aspen’s seemed to brighten. “Ms. Blackburne is right; you ought to focus on written history, like the Greeks or Sumerians. Cultures that were a bit more . . . literate,” he said, a touch smugly.
Sequoia’s eyes flashed. “Oral history doesn’t make a culture any less worthy of study. In fact, Julian wrote several papers on the Celts and their extensive oral tradition,” she said, her voice pointed.
At the mention of Julian’s name, a chill fell about the room. Aspen’s face went pale, and his eyes narrowed as they fixed on Sequoia.
“Of course Julian would have preferred the Celts—romanticizing their scattered clans and tribal squabbles over Roman order. You should have known better than to take his advice,” Aspen said, his tone a shadow of a whisper.
Sequoia’s gaze hardened. “You are assuredly a Greco-Roman snob. Julian would have voted in favor of the Druids,” she said, glancing in my direction. “Unlike some of us here who seem to dismiss anything without a concrete record.”
“Enough,” the Meister cut in, his voice slicing through the air. “The group majority has recommended not to pursue further research on the topic, Ms. Nightingale. You are, of course, free to continue at your discretion, subject to peer review.”
“Julian favored you and would’ve endorsed any idea you proposed here. If only you hadn’t been so friendly with him, you could’ve seen reason,” Aspen sneered.
“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” Sequoia’s voice trembled with anger as she rose from the loveseat, her cheeks burning red.
“The Circle is dismissed,” the Meister said sternly. “And let me remind you both that personal matters are forbidden in the Circle. Unbiased judgment is required for the integrity of our discussions,” he added, his gaze cutting between Sequoia and Aspen.
Nina stretched with a yawn and rose. “Well, that was entertaining. Good luck on your paper, Koi. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a brine bath to fill.”
Sequoia moved toward the door, sparing a quick glance back at me. Her expression was a mixture of hurt and, perhaps, betrayal before she disappeared into the hallway. Only Aspen and Leone remained.
Leone looked up from his book. “Welcome to Circle,” he said flatly.
*
With the Circle dismissed, I watched everyone leave, each slipping back into their carefully-constructed roles.
Leone retreated with his usual silence, nose already buried in his book as he disappeared into the hallway.
The Meister offered me a careful glance before following the other students out.
Alone in the sitting room, the fire cast flickering shadows on the walls, its glow amplifying the rich, haunting atmosphere of the House.
I leaned back on the chaise, letting my head rest against the cool upholstery.
The entire evening had been a master class in psychology—a delicate balance of trust, manipulation, and academic posturing.
And Julian’s presence loomed over it all, a ghost conjured by Sequoia’s simple mention of his name.
I stood, crossing to the hearth where embers crackled softly.
I craned my neck to the ceiling and studied the trellis-like branches of the oak stretching upward, its ancient wood casting elongated shadows.
It was a symbol, one that seemed to bear its own secrets, somehow entwined with this House.
And now I was here, linked to that same branch as Julian.