Chapter 6

Aurora

AS EVENING DESCENDS, COAXING THE sunlight from the sky so that darkness may reign, I stand at the front of a long line of women and girls, holding an unlit torch, waiting to begin the dance. The younger girls titter with laughter and excited whispers, while the elder and wiser women wait patiently for the Great Rite to unfold.

Beneath my breast, my heart thrums like the wings of a hummingbird. The air is brushed with the smell of flowers and wine, and soon the scent of smoke will fill the village and the forest. Bare feet moving to the drums, we will dance and leap the flames, blessing ourselves and our crops, and the union of the May Queen and Horned God will bring fertility back to the land.

I wonder who the Horned God will be. I still don’t know everyone in the village, so I can hardly begin to guess who might be selected for the ritual. There’s a sense of excitement in not knowing, and the curiosity makes my heart beat ever faster.

Standing beside me is a man with a bodhrán. He wears cotton trousers and has leaves in his hair, and as he looks into the distance, he raises his left hand, then begins to strike the drum.

Behind me, the girls’ whispers fade into silence. When I glance back at them, they’re smiling up at me. I take a breath.

And the Great Rite begins.

The drummer leads the way, guiding our procession one beat at a time. We walk through the town square, which is now nearly abandoned, and past the Maypole, with its ribbons made pale by the rising moon. The cobbles beneath my bare feet are still warm from the heat of the day. We step onto the dirt of Hillock Lane, and from here I can just see Heritage Hill rising up in the distance. Figures move about in the moonlight, shadows shifting like leaves on the trees.

As we draw nearer, another drum can be heard cutting through the night. With each step toward the hill, with each beat of the drum, the excitement inside me mounts. And behind me, the women start to sing.

“Dancing the circle, in flames we ignite, feel the magic on this longest night. As the sacred fire and the moon shine bright, we celebrate Beltane’s warmth and light.”

Our skirts swish through the long green grasses as we climb the winding path to Heritage Hill, atop which waits a towering unlit bonfire. Alden helped the other men in the village collect and chop wood for the fire, and for three nights he came home covered in dirt and smelling of pine. I smile now thinking of it.

The song of the drums grows louder with each stride we take, as if inviting us to step into the magic of the night.

We crest the top of the hill to find the village gathered around the bonfire, anxiously awaiting the dance. Excitement fills the warm air.

Niamh stands there, a large quartz crystal held in one hand. As I approach, she offers me a smile. I hold my torch aloft, and Niamh strikes the quartz with a rod of steel once, twice, thrice. Sparks catch the cloth torch head, sending light and heat dancing across my face.

Putting the crystal away, Niamh takes up a bottle of oil from the pouch about her waist. She wets her fingers, then uses the oil to anoint my forehead, my hands, and my bare feet. It smells softly of rose, and it catches the light from the flames dancing beside me.

With an arm held out, Niamh steps aside, allowing me passage to the great bonfire.

The women continue to sing as I step up to the towering pile of wood. As I glance at the faces in the crowd, I spot Lydia, James, and Alden.

Which means he’s not my Horned God.

A swell of disappointment rises in me, but I quickly push it down. We can still take to the woods after the rite and ring in summer with our own ritual. Just the thought of it makes heat dance beneath my skin.

Rising voices drift around me as I lift the torch and its flame high, and then I light the Beltane bonfire.

A great cheer goes up, and the drums begin an even more lively pace. Other musicians join in, sending the sounds of summer twirling all around us. I place the torch in a holder beside the bonfire, and with a breath, I start to dance.

With the women trailing behind me, I begin the first circle around the bonfire. The grass is soft beneath my bare feet, and deep underground, the earth’s heart beats. My soul calls to her soul, and I close my eyes, letting the rhythm of nature move me. With my white dress swishing around my calves and my long hair swaying around my face, I dance, and I dance, and I dance. The onlookers clap along with the music, and more voices rise into the inky sky as sparks from the raging bonfire drift like fireflies against the blackness of the night.

The beat of the drums changes, slowing, and around me, the female dancers start to disperse and drift into the assembled crowd. At the same time, at the far side of the bonfire, the crowd parts to let someone through.

To let him through.

The Horned God.

My heart thrums faster as I wait anxiously to see him.

Upon his arrival, a lone horn moans through the sound of the drums, sending goose bumps fluttering over my bare arms.

He is unclothed but for a pair of trousers, and antlers woven with leaves rise high above his head, casting shadows against the firelight. His skin has been painted with hues of the earth—brown and green and yellow, rich pigments that turn him the very color of summer. Yellow flowers ring his head, and beneath the flower crown is a shock of red.

As the horned one approaches the fire amidst the beating of drums and collective drawn breaths from the onlookers, he raises his eyes to meet mine, and his verdant gaze sends a burst of flame shooting through my veins.

The Horned God is . . .

Rowan.