3. ÉIRE 9th Century #5
The Romani witch nodded thoughtfully, a silent affirmation of his understanding.
The Rite of Samhain commenced.
Aodhán stood as part of a circle of witches before a great fire, speaking aloud with a commanding yet temperate voice.
The Romani witch felt powerful energy emanating from the circle, for a potent intersection of ley lines pulsed beneath the coven’s feet like a heartbeat.
Aodhán stood at the northernmost part of the circle, anchoring the ritual.
“We, an unbroken circle of thirteen, have gathered here tonight under the moon’s soft glow, united as guileless witches devoted to the ancient ways of the Old Religion to perform the Rite of Samhain.
We form a sacred coven woven together by our shared beliefs and the magic that flows within and around us.
“With reverence, we honour the Goddess, the nurturing Mother of all creation. We embrace Nature, the seen world in all her vibrant forms, and deeply connect with Spirit, the unseen realm of emotion, soul, and all the forces and beings which dwell in the invisible.
“The Craft of the Wise has been practiced on Earth in one form or another since the dawn of humanity, weaving its presence through the fabric of our history and guiding countless generations in their search for meaning and connection.
Women and men. Parent and child. Teacher and student. Chosen and outcast.
“Our tribes began by worshiping fire and the Sun, ushering in an era of sacrifices.
Yet, the essence of the Goddess, who embodies life, remains clear: she does not demand life to be taken for her veneration.
Rather, she invites gratitude and reverence for the bounty of existence without the need for loss.
“This evening, we glorify Cernunnos, the Horned God, guardian of the Great Mother’s bounty and all living things.
He who embodies the spirit of the wild and, long ago, taught our ancestors the art of the hunt, the alchemy of cookery, the wisdom of wearing skins and fur and building shelter for protection against the elements.
Most of all, we praise him for teaching our kin and kind to tap into our inner magic.
“I, Aodhán, stand before you, representing the Crone, the Goddess’ wise and aged aspect.
As she journeys to the Otherworld for the winter, she opens the doorway between our worlds, allowing us, her supplicants, to communicate with the mystics who crossed over long before our ancestors.
These elders possess knowledge of history, time, and legend that extends beyond what is known to our recent dead.
“We ask these spirits to bless us with their wisdom and gnosis, both mundane and arcane, to speak with us in silent whispers. We praise you and give thanks for your teachings, your guidance, and your love.
“We make space for the Goddess and the Horned God to enter the world of flesh and blood, earth and air, fire and water; we beseech them to walk amongst us tonight, granting visions and imparting secrets and wisdom to those they deem worthy and ready to embrace such divine gifts. In gratitude, we shall carry these blessings with us into the unfolding journey of the new year.”
At that moment, all the witches, except for two men and Aodhán, stepped back a few paces into the field, maintaining the circular formation as they did so.
“I stand here betwixt the venerable Holly King and the majestic Oak King.” Aodhán’s booming voice resonated through the air once more, filling the space with an authority that commanded attention.
“Look upon them, locked in an eternal dance of rivalry through the ever-turning cycles of the seasons.”
The Oak King player wore a green robe embroidered with small twigs and tree bark sporadically stitched into the fabric. The Holly King player wore a robe hemmed with holly, its evergreen leaves and red berries representing winter, the dark, waning half of the year.
“As the year slips toward its end, the Oak King finds his vitality fading, his once-robust spirit now gently yielding to the encroaching chill of winter. His sap, which once surged with exuberance, retreats deep into the heart of his sturdy trunk. The vibrant green leaves that danced joyfully in the summer breeze now succumb to Autumn’s cold embrace, their colours shifting to haunting shades of russet and gold before drifting to the ground.
“Accompanied by the Crone, the Oak King shall journey to the Otherworld. There, he shall lie in stillness, awaiting the call of spring when the Goddess summons him, promising renewal, rebirth, and the return of life’s vitality.”
The Romani witch observed the players keenly, his eyes sparkling with intrigue as they executed their roles with unwavering precision. Each gesture flowed seamlessly; their movements were fluid and captivating against the backdrop of the night, illuminated only by the moon’s glow and the bonfire.
Aodhán’s embodiment of the Crone delighted the Romani witch; it was a very unconventional yet wildly exciting interpretation for him to behold.
He and the two witches representing the Oak King and the Holly King circled one another in a methodical dance of transferral, as two prepared to leave on their respective journeys and one remained to claim temporary sovereignty.
The witches on the outer perimeter within their circle began to sway and dance, chanting in a language the Romani witch had never heard—and he had learned many over the centuries.
He figured they were all saying their goodbyes to the past year in the Old Tongue of éire, one he was unfamiliar with, as they prepared their spirits and bodies for the new one to come.
At midnight, the second part of the rite began. A few witches placed freshly cut, dry wood onto the fire. Then, as the ensuing sparks and crackles emanated from the reawakened flame, the entire coven erupted in joy, each removing a candle from beneath their robe and lighting it by the fire.
The Romani witch listened intently as Aodhán spoke about the great Herne the Hunter, inviting him into their circle. A large male witch with curly, sandy blond hair and a long, thick beard stepped forward to embody this rustic role. Aodhán asked Herne to protect them throughout the winter months.
The Hunter accepted the task in what the Romani witch felt was a tediously long speech, though he had to admit the player’s deep voice was quite pleasing to the ear.
The coven witches with the lit candles danced around Herne, waving their tiny fires in the night air, showing honour and reverence to him.
When the witches, except for Aodhán and the three other coven members playing roles, began to remove their garments, the Romani witch finally grasped the significance of the robes and the need to be naked beneath them.
The robes must represent the embrace and reverence of the Autumn, while the nude human form symbolizes birth, or more precisely, rebirth, for all babes are born naked.
An acceptance of being thrust into a new course of life.
Yes, this is similar to the Roma traditions that incorporate animism, our belief that divine power resides in nature and the human environment.
The Romani witch watched as Aodhán—the Crone—took the hand of the Oak King player and moved back toward the others, who were now all naked and dancing; as they walked, they too disrobed.
Only the witches embodying the Holly King and Herne remained, standing side by side near the bonfire in silent meditation, until the non-performers thanked the two remaining Old Ones for their presence and gently suggested it was time for them to depart.
Having finished their performances, the two witches also stripped naked and joined with their fellow coven members in the merriment.
The Romani witch gazed upon the Celtae witches with fascination as they danced with fervour and joy. The flickering firelight cast playful shadows across the witches’ gleaming naked flesh, illuminating the euphoria that radiated from them as they moved in spirited rhythms.
He longed to be a part of their revelry, to be swept up in the ecstatic whirl. He had half a mind to join in.
Ultimately, he did not, for he felt it was not his place. A sense of ideological contrariness tethered the Romani witch to his spot at the edge of the clearing, a respectful distance from the bonfire.
While he appreciated the opportunity to observe and absorb the rich traditions of the Celtae witches, especially the sacred Rite of Samhain, a lingering sense of disconnection weighed heavily on him.
The vibrant rituals, steeped in ancient lore and communal spirit, only highlighted the chasm between himself and those around him.
These were not his gods; these were not his people. Though there was some overlap with the Romani way, ultimately, these were not his customs and practices. These were not Aeneas’ either—but they were Aodháns.
The Romani witch had a thought, but was it wicked? As he gazed up at the night sky, he contemplated a change of scenery.
Should I ask Aodhán to leave the Curragh and these people and return to Italia or Greece with me?
Why not Britannia—or Engla land, as I hear it is now called?
We were so happy there before that fiendish blood-drinker destroyed everything.
Surely, that monstrous immortal is long gone from those shores.
Perhaps we could even go in search of Gian, though Aodhán could never be told who he truly is to him!
With a heavy heart, the Romani witch shrugged his shoulders and let out a deep sigh that reflected the weight of his unspoken burden: accepting the inevitable.
He understood that these thoughts came from a selfish mindset. It would be cruel to ask Aodhán to make such a painful choice, forcing him to choose between his beloved and the community that had nurtured him since childhood, including the coven that had chosen him as their leader.