Southend U3A

November 2023

Full Moon - Jenny Bowker

Her name was Mielikki, as was her mother’s. She prayed to Mielikki, the Lady of the Forest. She sought her advice, her protection but never her love, for a goddess cannot love a mortal, her duty was to protect the earth, the trees and all the creatures of the forest. Mielikki had been chosen to be a bride of Logus, who protected and guided the tribe.

Mielikki had been chosen because her body was young, firm and gave promise of fecundity, even though she was younger than some of her sisters and had strangely straw coloured hair which was very unusual; most of the tribe had black straight hair but in this case the promise of her body was more potent when selecting a possible mate for the son of the Dagda, the most powerful of all the gods.

The elders had consulted with the Shaman, had taken their measurements and decided on the most auspicious time for the ceremony, towards the end of the 3rd quarter solstice. She didn’t understand but was compliant with the wishes of the tribe. In the late afternoon, when the strength of the sun Dagda, was weakening, she was taken aside and dressed in a simple flax shift, had a crown woven of ivy, mistletoe and willow placed upon her head and was given the purple juice to help her remain calm through the ceremony. Her mother, a Landuri, a priestess who was allowed into the inner circle at any time, gave her instruction on what to expect.

‘You must not open your eyes, because the glory of Dagda and his son might over power you’, she whispered, repeating the order, ‘Do not open your eyes’ but by now the monksfoot – the purple juice – was taking effect and Mielinki had difficulty in keeping awake. Her mother promised to have a flask of mandrake to hand, should it be required, to revive her after the glorious coupling.

Her mother held her right hand and the arch druid, with his long flowing robes and twisted yew staff, held her left, as it was nearest her heart. Through her drowsy state she realised that the leader of the elders, the arch druid had hair the same colour as her own and she thought this curious as the colour was so rare. ‘It must be an omen, a good one, a mark of favour,’ she thought dreamily as she was guided slowly, her back to the fading sun, pace by pace, for the first time through the lesser aisle of the sacred place. All the members of the tribe were in attendance, the elders in the nearest circle of spectators, flanked by the priests and priestesses, followed by the lower ranking members and finally the children, to the back of the crowd, attended by mothers, young warriors and nurses. The crowd moved in rhythm, their bodies swaying and their feet causing a throbbing of the earth. The sound was magnified by the silence of all the creatures of the sky which were not present, or were watching silently. The creatures of the forest were hidden from view, all she could hear was the thump … thump … thump ... of unshod feet on the soil and the sound of unified breathing creating strange sighing music.

Her eyelids were closed but she sensed the sun had gone, giving way to Logus who was the only God who could vanquish the power of Dagda. There was no warmth in the air and she knew if she looked, all she would see would be the magic of the sky, lit with tiny bright sparks, showing the homes of the gods who watched over the earth and their supplicants.

She smelt him before she heard him. The shaman was coming. She did not want to open her eyes as she knew what he looked like, was terrified of his appearance, a twisted filthy male with long ropes of never washed grizzled hair, where myriad tiny creatures were clearly visible. It was a measure of his special power that he lived with these creatures and suffered their bites with no complaint. His upper body was full of inflamed pussy sores which oozed sulphurous smelling liquid. He smelt from these and having never had water on his body, the hair beneath his arms and in his groin were also infested with lice. The stale animal fat on his woad embroidered body created a stench. The only decoration on the malodourous creature were necklaces about his neck and upper body full of pieces of stone, shells, skeletons of small creatures of the field, air and sea some and some skulls of unborn babies which had been used when casting his secret spells.

She could hear him now, his willow wand festooned with more skulls rattling and his guttural voice chanting in a language that none could understand, invoking spirits or the gods to watch and bless the ceremony. She was guided to the bluestone table, her feet to the west so that she could greet her groom when he came from the east. The noise of the chanting grew, and guttural speech became heated, the smell of his breath would have made her swoon but the monksfoot still had sufficient strength to calm her. The rattle shook furiously, the assembly began wailing, louder and louder and then, suddenly, all was quiet. Silence.

Mielikki realised the power of the monksfoot was waning but still she kept her eyes closed. Through her eyelids she sensed a decrease in the black night. Logus must be approaching. She knew she must remain calm on her cold bed but she was sure it was getting lighter. Had she met her groom but in her drugged state missed the event? The shaman was very close to her now, no sound betrayed his presence but his stench was unmistakeable. She knew now with certainty the light was getting stronger. She opened her eyes and saw the brilliant white circle of the full moon framed by the arch. She looked upward in time to see the gnarled hand with filthy black nails clasping a large flint knife. She opened her mouth to scream but the knife fell and the air from her scream caused the blood from her slit throat to froth and bubble as it gushed onto the blue stone. There would be another choosing within the 4th quarter solstice.