It was the day before Samhain and Glendower was alive with activity. The villagers were anticipating the religious festival, also known in Welsh as Calan Gaeaf. It marked the beginning of the Celtic year. The Derwydds were making preparations for worship, celebration, and sacrifice.

“What sort of sacrifice?” Circe asked her father the day before the festival. She had heard the Papists ate the body and drank the blood of Christ. She also remembered the story of Moses with his son. These rituals scared her.

“We no longer ascribe to all of the traditional rituals, Circe,” he explained, stepping into his shoes. “Sacrifice in our world today takes the form of charitable acts for others. We share our food, our skills and our time with those in need. Indeed, we do slaughter our livestock but only to feed ourselves during the winter. Yet, keep ever mindful, Circe that during Calan Gaeaf we honor the dead. That is the most important aspect of all.”

Circe nodded and went back to preparing a boiled pudding.

Rhun opened the door, gazed out at the cold rain and closed it again quickly. “The Goddess has gifted us with rain but it doesn’t mean I want to go out in it. I would much rather stay here by the fire with my little daughter.”

She blushed. She was unaccustomed to affection from a parent. She watched her father as he put items into a deerskin sack. She had never really noticed before, but he was a handsome man. He had a strong forehead, bright blue eyes and the faintest hint of a red beard and mustache. She liked the way he always had one tiny braid in his long hair. His build was firm, although his bones were fine, and his physique was lean. She was glad that her looks favored him.

“Where do you go today, Father?”

“Village mediation,” he said, pulling the strings of the sack shut. “I forgot to ask you. How was your day with Mistress Charles yesterday?”

“It went well. Her knowledge of healing is so vast, though; I was overwhelmed. Was she was the one who attended to my aunt when she was ill?”

“Yes, that was her. What did she have you do?”

“She had me watch her mix poultices and I helped with teas.”

“Does the life of an ovate appeal to you?”

“I’m not certain, Father. There is so much to learn.”

“You speak the truth. We would have to accelerate your instruction. It usually takes a Derwydd fifteen years of study to become a healer. So we must start you soon.” He took a bite of bread. “But we will introduce you to all of our vocations first so you make the proper choice. You have yet to observe Saffir and her skills as a bard. Perhaps that will be your calling, or perhaps divination. Be mindful of the spirits. They will guide you.”

“Yes, Father.”

Circe wanted to ask him if the spirits had spoken to him when he made his choice. Rhun was one of the most powerful Derwydds in all of Glendower, and he was one of the most dedicated. Not only did he help lead worship and read the stars, but he also presided over village disputes, claims, and issues of law.

Everything was so different here. There was no choice about your future if you were a girl in Plum River. You were to become a wife and mother as soon as you could bear children.

Rhun pulled up his hood, tucking in his long hair to avoid the rain. “We will talk more tonight,” he said, squeezing her hand. He opened the door, stepped out and was gone.

Rhun and Saffir were late returning to the cottage that evening. There was no chance to talk, but Circe didn’t care. Her head was filled with questions about Samhain. As the girls undressed for bed in the loft, Circe asked Ruith about how to honor the dead.

“You already honored them at your grandparent’s grave in Plum River.”

“Is that the sort of ritual of which the Derwydds speak?”

“Yes, reflection, remembering and making offerings.”

“I didn’t even realize I was observing Calan Gaeaf.”

“Oh, I think you knew,” Ruith said. “I believe something deep inside told you it was time.”

Circe thought of the bare branches of the trees, the brown marsh grass and geese flying overhead. “It is the cycle of death and rebirth overseen by the Goddess.”

“Indeed. Tomorrow the boundary between the spirit and mundane world grows thin. And it all starts at sunset. The really important rituals are done by the Derwydds in the oak sanctuary. We are not allowed to attend those rites, but there is still plenty for us to do here in the village.”

The next day, an hour before sunset, the girls walked to the other side of the village to the Owen cottage. They had been asked to watch Ruith’s four small cousins while Mistress Owen helped lay the board for the feast in the commons.

Circe’s stomach flip-flopped thinking of all the merriment ahead.

“What are you smiling about?” Ruith asked.

“How do you know I’m smiling?”

“I can hear it in your step.”

Circe put her arms out and whirled around in a circle. “I am excited about tonight.”

Ruith enthusiastically grabbed her hands. “Oh, there is so much for you to see. When the sun sets, you’ll see turnips hollowed out as lanterns and candles placed in the windows to help guide the spirits. There will be food, music, and dancing.”

Starting to skip, Circe exclaimed. “And I don’t have to hide my joy! I can skip if I want to skip. I can laugh if I want to laugh.”

“That’s right!” Ruith said as they approached the Owen home. The family lived in one of the first roundhouses built in Glendower. Saffir had explained to Circe that this is how the ancients lived long ago in Wales and England. Their homes were round, wooden structures with roofs of thatch that had been gathered from the marsh. The rooflines were low, almost touching the ground. As a result, there were no windows in the dwellings. Short enclosed passageways served as entrances opening into the main room. These short corridors were intended to keep out the wind and rain.

Inside this cozy structure, there was one large common area with a table, chairs, cooking utensils and a crucible hanging over a fire. A loft was overhead where the children could sleep or it would be used for storage. Sometimes, depending on the family, there were walled off rooms on the main level to serve as bedrooms. Some roundhouses had attached sheds for livestock as well.

All of this was new to Circe, but what she found the most unusual was the open fire in the middle of the great room. There was no chimney. The burning logs lay on packed earth and were held in place by “firedogs,” large iron props which were often decorative. The smoke from the fire rose up and seeped out through the thatch on the roof.

“Come in, girls,” Mistress Owen said as the girls stepped into the dwelling. “The children are anxious to see you.”

Although Rowena Owen was Saffir’s sister, Circe saw no resemblance between the two. Although Rowena had dark, curly hair too, she was short and stocky, whereas Saffir was tall and lean.

“I’ll be leaving now,” Rowena said, taking a clean apron from a peg. “The children are dressed and ready to go. See you in the commons.”

“Very well, Aunt Rowena,” Ruith replied, picking up the baby from his cradle.

When Mistress Owen left the house, Ruith asked the children, “Do you know what we are going to do now?”

“Tell us!” the five-year-old girl exclaimed, jumping up and down. Kiara was a spritely blonde and more gregarious than her four-year-old sister who stared at Ruith with her thumb in her mouth.

“Our task is to show Circe how we bury apples along the road. Why do we do it?”

“To help the spirits find their way,” Kiara replied.

Circe bent down. “Are they lost?”

The little girl took a lock of Circe’s hair and wrapped it around her finger. “They are lost or may have no family. Tonight we will be their family.”

“Then this is a worthy undertaking,” Circe replied, patting her cheek.

Ruith handed the girls bags of apples. “We must make haste, otherwise it will be too dark to do our work.”

Taking the baby from Ruith, Circe tucked the little boy into a sling she had tied over her chest and took the hand of the other boy, a chubby toddler. She missed her siblings; she wondered if they were feeling lost and confused without their mother.

The group walked through town, weaving their way through the crowd of villagers as they rushed back and forth. They carried platters of meat, bread, roasted vegetables, jugs of mead and wood for the fire. Everyone was in high spirits, laughing and chattering.

Ruith, Circe, and the children turned down a path headed toward Glendower Stream. Halfway to shore, they stopped and Ruith knelt down, digging small holes with a shell along the path. The children followed behind her, taking turns dropping apples into the holes and covering them.

It was dark by the time they returned to the village. They found Mistress Owen arranging chairs around one of the long tables. “Thank you, my dears. I’ll take the children now,” she said. “But beware of mischief! The fairies are full of tricks tonight!”

They laughed and rushed off to help lit candles in hollowed out turnips. When they finished, the Derwydds appeared walking in formation onto the village green. The crowd hushed. All fifteen were dressed in their best robes which were reserved for sacred occasions. Rhun and Saffir were among them. Circe instantly noticed the quality of the garments. Someone was a talented weaver in Glendower. She sorely missed her craft.

An older man, the leader of the Derwydds, was the first to address the crowd. His skin was sunburned and wrinkled as parchment. He wore a tiny pointed beard, and his thick gray hair was short and unruly. Circe had seen him a year earlier when she had been spying on the settlement with Bullfrog. 

“Good people of Glendower,” he exclaimed with his arms raised. “We welcome the coming year and give thanks for the endless circle of our lives. Please, let us begin our celebration with our Calan Gaeaf invocation.”

The villagers recited with him in unison:

 

“Bless, O Goddess of generous goddesses,

Myself and everything anear me,

Bless me in all my actions,

Make me safe forever.

From every brownie and banshee,

From every evil wish and sorrow,

From every nymph and water-wraith,

From every fairy-mouse and grass-mouse.

From every troll among the hills,

From every siren hard pressing me,

From every ghoul within the glens,

Oh! Save me til the end of my day,

Oh! Save me til the end of my day.”

 

When they were done, Circe whispered to Ruith, “Should I fear such things tonight?”

“Only if you stray from the village. Take these to be safe,” She reached into the slit of her skirt, pulled out her pocket and handed Circe dried mushrooms. “If the fairies find you, drop these around you in a circle. It will protect you.”

Circe nodded uncertainly.

“They carry the same energy that encircles our village and guides trespassers away from us.”

“Then how is it Bullfrog and I were able to spy on you a year ago?”

“You had been invited,” Ruith said.

Circe eyebrows shot up. Before she could ask more, someone yelled, “Let the celebration begin!”

There was a flurry of excitement and noise as everyone made ready for the feast. Men stepped over benches seating themselves at long tables as women poured mead. There were bowls of succotash, platters of pork and venison, green beans, pumpkin soup and squash. Everyone was talking and laughing, passing food, tearing off chunks of bread, and guzzling beer.

Circe and Ruith help distribute the meal, and only after the men were served did they sit down to eat. Circe had never witnessed so much gaiety. There were days of rest and communal gatherings in Plum River, but there were staid and solemn affairs, filled with prayer. This was different, for it was truly a celebration. Nevertheless, the people of Glendower were ever mindful of the dead, setting a place for them at each of the tables.

After the feasting and clean up, the villagers cleared the green for music and dancing.

“Before the music starts, there is one more bit of apple magic I must show you,” Ruith said to Circe. She handed her an apple with a small knife. “Cut this in half, dig your thumbs into the center and conjure up what worries you the most.”

Circe raised her eyebrows but complied, slicing the apple in two and pressing her thumbs into the center.

“Now think,” Ruith urged. “Put your worst fear into that apple.”

Circe closed her eyes and thought of her worst fear−that of being abandoned once more. When she opened her eyes again, Ruith instructed, “Now put the halves back together, bend down right here and bury the apple quickly.” She handed her a large sharp-edged shell. Circe bent down, scraping back the earth. She stuffed the apple into the ground, covered it and stood up.

“Now,” Ruith said. “As the apple rots, so too will your fear.”

Circe smiled. “I like that.”

“I do too.”

Everyone began to gather around a small platform near the bonfire. Circe watched her father escort Saffir up the steps. She wore a multicolored brat, and a band of gold encircled her dark hair. All eyes were on her. Taking a breath, she began to sing in a strong, clear voice, a ballad about the people of Anglesey and their valiant last stand against the Romans. It told of how the Celts and Druids stood fearlessly along the shore of the Menai Straits wearing hides. Their faces were painted blue, ready for battle. Women in funereal garb, their hair flowing in the wind, stood proudly among them as well, holding torches and striking terror into the hearts of every Roman.

The Celts fought bravely but alas, Saffir sang. The people of Anglesey were conquered, and the ancient order of the oak was cut to the ground. But she reassured them and gave them hope; it was a new year and a new time for them all.

Circe was moved. These were her people. They had struggled, fought and died for their way of life, and for their gods. They were subdued but not forgotten. We are still here practicing the old ways, she thought, and it stirred something deep inside her.

After supper, the bonfire was lit and musicians gathered; three fiddlers, a drummer and several men with alder whistles. Eight couples lined up when the music started, women on one side and men on the other. After a bow, they linked arms and swung each other around in a circle. Then, the couples took turns sliding back and forth as everyone clapped.

Circe was spellbound. This was the first time she had seen a dance. People in Plum River found it provocative, but she found it exhilarating. Everyone was laughing and clapping, filled with delight.

“It’s called rince fadda, or a reel,” Ruith said. “You’ll like the jameko too. You must try them all.”

Circe shook her head. “I’d stumble and fall.”

“No, you must try!”

“Maybe later.”

Ruith introduced Circe to several girls in the village. Many were either married or soon to be wed. Circe could tell they looked upon them as outsiders. They were the only ones studying to be Derwydds. Their lives were taking a much different course.

The musicians played another reel, and Circe tried the dance after much coaxing. Emirs Tallow, a boy her age, taught her the steps. She could follow along with him by the time the song ended.

When everyone returned to the tables for beer and mead, “I never thought I could dance!” Circe exclaimed.

“So you liked it?” Ruith asked.

“I did!”

Circe tried the reel several more times, but it was growing late. When a large, bald man stepped onto the platform to sing a bawdy drinking song, Ruith said, “Mother said we are to go home now. But first I must check on Aunt Rowena’s children. You start without me.”

Circe nodded and turned towards home. She looked up at the night sky upon reaching the edge of town. Wispy clouds were sailing across the crescent moon and leaves skittered at her feet. She pulled her hood up and continued to walk.

This part of the village was quiet. Everyone was attending the celebration. Circe still carried the merriment inside her and started humming. Suddenly, a speck of light flew in front of her face. It resembled a firefly. But a lightning bug this time of year? Impossible. Circe watched the little creature struggle in the wind. It stayed several feet ahead of her and then careened down a path along the Glendower stream.

She stopped and stared. The bug returned when she didn’t follow, hovered in front of her and went back down the path.

What manner of magic is this?  Why is there a firefly out in autumn? And why is it coaxing me to follow?

Throwing caution aside, she chased after it until it stopped and lingered in front of a cottage. In the half-light of the moon, Circe could see that it was an abandoned roundhouse. The roof was caved in on one side, and the surrounding grass was overgrown.

The firefly darted into the entry.

Circe’s stomach jumped. This smacked of enchantment, and she was suddenly frightened. Could this be the work of wraiths? She fingered the mushrooms in her pocket. But she was just steps away from the celebration; she could still hear music and laughter.

Circe ducked into the cottage. The room was dark except for the glow of the bug which began to burn brighter and brighter. As she watched in amazement, it grew in size until it burst into a flaming ball. It lowered itself into the hearth and changed into an ordinary fire crackling in the center of the room. The flames illuminated a figure sitting in a chair, and Circe jumped. It was a little girl carding wool.

“My apologies!” Circe cried. “I thought this dwelling was abandoned.”

The figure did not reply but continued carding. She was very thin and pale.

Just as Circe was about to dash out of the cottage, the girl rippled and transformed into a beautiful young woman. She had red hair and was seated at a spinning wheel.

Circe’s feet felt like iron. She wanted to run but could not. In the blink of an eye, the specter changed again. This time into a middle-aged woman at a loom. And then finally, it transformed into an old lady bent over her embroidery. She raised her head slowly, looked at Circe and croaked, “I have news for you, my granddaughter.”

Circe thought she would swoon. “You-you are mistaken, goodwife. I have no kin in Glendower beyond my father.”

“Your kin are all around you, Circe Swinburne. They whisper in your ear, but you do not listen.”

The wizened old woman was dressed in a brown shift with a green plaid shawl draped over her head. Circe saw that she had only four fingers on her left hand. But the most terrifying characteristic was that her face was constantly changing from child to young woman to old crone and back again.

Trembling from head to toe, Circe asked, “What do you want of me?”

“You are about to make a serious mistake. Do not deny your destiny.”

“Please release me. I must go,” Circe said.

“Hear us out! Do not become a Derwydd. Return to spinning and weaving. It is in your blood. It is in our blood. Just remember to keep the secret close.”

“What secret?” Circe asked.

The phantom changed into the little girl again. “This,” she said and held up her embroidery. Sewn into the cloth was Circe’s knotted design. “There is a reason you have been tracing it all your life. Find its mate. But beware! Many could die in the wrong hands.”

“What do you mean, find its mate?” she asked. But the firelight began to fade. “Please tell me! Don’t go away.”

“Follow your heart and listen for us,” she heard the little girl call from a distance.

The fire went out and left Circe in the darkness.

Circe stumbled out of the cottage and began to run. She ran along the stream and did not stop until she reached home. She burst through the door and saw that Ruith had not yet returned. With tears streaming down her face, she grabbed the bellows, brought up the fire and collapsed into a chair.

What had just happened? She looked over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone. This must have been the work of evil spirits on Samhain. She had witnessed their sinister practices first hand. But why did their words hold meaning for her? Had she been a victim of fairy trickery or had she really been visited by her ancestors?

Circe put her head in her hands while trying to make sense of it. She must speak with her father. He would know what had happened.