Ritual Reality
22 Come to Litha!
Saturday, 21 June 1969
“By what authority did you call the assembly of the separate circles?” demanded the elderly woman who stood in front of the High Priest. The great circle celebrants were robed in full ceremonial robes for the summer solstice celebration, but having arrived at the ancient stone circle a dispute immediately broke out over The Barber’s authority to call the circles together. They had come expecting that either the High Priestess or The Huntress had called the circle. Now the test had come. The woman, whom Rebecca recognized as Counselor, the Priestess of the lesser circle of Braithwaite, brought the formal challenge forward.
“I called the circles by authority of the High Priest as it is written that he may do in the absence of a High Priestess.”
“Is it true then? Is Magda no longer with us?”
“She was in an accident this morning in the market. She was hit by a runaway lorry,” he declared. The circles broke into murmurs as celebrants turned to comfort each other.
“Hit but not killed,” said Judith, stepping up to take her place as Priestess of Threlkeld. “I saw this so-called accident and saw the man who saved her life. She was in intensive care at the hospital when I left her this afternoon, but expected to make a full recovery.”
“Then by law of the circles, we are not without a High Priestess. Braithwaite does not recognize your right to convene the great circle.”
“Nor does Threlkeld,” said Judith. The Priestess of High Lodore was silent. The High Priest belonged to her circle and it was hard for her to oppose her own coven brother in the full gathering. Skiddaw had its own confusion, for without Magda, they were also without a Priestess. It appeared that there might be a stalemate. Rebecca almost wished the circle would dissolve and celebrate Litha independently in their local gatherings.
“You saw the flame from the mountain,” the High Priest declared. “And to that flame you gathered. Be it known therefore that I called the great circle because I can call the great circle. He or she who would challenge my right to convene this circle must do so by equal power.”
So that was his game, Rebecca thought. Trial by power and no one would stand up to that test. Even Magda had refused to defend her office when challenged to this type of duel years before. She moved in the shadow and took hold of Judith’s hand, pulling her aside.
“I told you that I would not call the circle without you,” she whispered. “And in fact, I cannot call it without you. But together we have authority over all four circles and we can elect a priestess. Much better that than to let The Barber choose one to his liking.”
“You found him then?”
“He found me. By accident,” Rebecca responded.
“Is he safe?” The question held more anxiety in it than Judith’s hardened façade was likely to let out. She really did care about him, Rebecca thought.
“I hope so,” she said looking down. “He’s out there, somewhere.”
“Then you can call the circle by mother’s proxy.”
“I wish so. But not under the challenge that The Barber issued. And not with the symbol that Magda left. It’s not what you thought. She must have assumed I had recovered the Athamé. You will have to call Threlkeld.”
“So that’s it,” Judith said. She silently considered Rebecca’s statement. “You’re good with fire, if I recall.”
“You did help.”
“Let’s do it.”
“We challenge the power of The Barber to convene the coven Carles, not by equal power, but by greater,” Rebecca called out. The two women stepped forward next to the other two priestesses.
“What? It takes two of you?” he laughed. “I need not match myself against two or against an entire coven if such were your wish. The power divided is already halved. I turn aside your challenge unanswered.”
“The arrogant son of a bitch,” Judith muttered under her breath.
“What now?” Rebecca asked. Judith looked at her very hard.
“I hope you’re up to this,” she whispered to Rebecca, then turned to face her own wicca gathered on the east side of the circle. “Hear me, Threlkeld!” she called in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the gathering. “You have given me sacred trust in selecting me as your priestess. I would not betray that trust. But we are subjects if we are without a champion. Therefore, I adopt The Hart, The Huntress of Carles, as daughter of Threlkeld Wicca.” Rebecca was stunned. She took hold of Judith’s arm and spun her toward her with a question on her lips. Judith erased it with a kiss. There was an immediate affirmation by the Threlkeld cildru.
“So mote it be!”
Judith continued looking at Rebecca after their kiss. “Necessity outweighs our differences, Hart. I release you from the promise not to call the circle alone.”
“Swordmaster, I don’t know what to say.”
“Better think of something quick.” Turning to her circle she continued. “As Priestess of Threlkeld, I take The Hart, Huntress of Carles, my daughter, as champion and lay in her hand my sword as symbol. Where she leads and where she calls, I and mine shall gather.”
“So mote it be!” responded the cildru of Threlkeld. Judith knelt on one knee and lifted the sword that Wayne had created for her at Christmas. Rebecca took it from her, still overcome by the vote of confidence from the other woman.
“Now go to it. We’re behind you.”
Rebecca swallowed her doubts and raised her voice. There was no longer a choice in her course of action.
“Therefore, I, The Hart, the Huntress of Carles, challenge the right of The High Priest to call the great circle of Carles as he would have it—by equal power, unassisted but for the perfect love and perfect trust of my brothers and sisters.” Rebecca stepped to the center of the circle where the fire had been laid but not yet kindled. In the center of the stacked wood sat the cold black cauldron Ops, as old as any of the tools of the coven. The High Priest moved opposite her and as Rebecca moved around the circle, he moved across from her, reflecting and countering each gesture and word. If at the end of her ritual the fire had started, she upheld her challenge. If it still lay cold, The Barber’s blue flame would hold as his right to convene the circle. Rebecca began in the East with The Barber facing her in the West. Her own tools she lay on the ground at this point, taking up the implements of her quest.
“As champion of Threlkeld and bearer of the Gatekeeper’s Sword, I summon from the East the cildru to this fire. Here at the Eastern Gate I place the Gatekeeper’s Sword, the trust of Threlkeld.”
She lay the sword on the ground near the wood, pointing directly at the cauldron in the center. Her breathing eased somewhat as she relaxed into her impromptu ritual. She moved on to the south side of the circle, once again facing The Barber in the North.
“As bearer of Iäpetus, the Second Face of Carles and the sacred trust of High Lodore, I summon the the cildru of High Lodore. Here at the southern gate, I place Iäpetus, fire rod, ruler of the dragon, the Second Face of Carles.” She lay Doc’s old walking stick, the staff of the Vagabond Poet, on the ground with its head toward the cauldron and moved on to the West where the High Priest had first stood. There was an uncomfortable feeling here. It was as if the ground was uneasy.
“As bearer of Cottus, the Third Face of Carles and the sacred trust of my own circle of Braithwaite, placed in my hand by The Cupbearer on the night of my challenge, I summon the cildru of Braithwaite. Here at the Western Gate I place Cottus, purifier of salted water, ruler of the serpent, the Third Face of Carles.” She attempted to set the cup on the ground, but could find no place level. It seemed that the cup would fall, no matter where she set it. It was like trying to balance it on a wave.
She smiled across at the High Priest, realizing the spell that he had placed there. Then she calmly spoke again. “May there be floods of blessing poured out upon the fires of Carles,” she said and laid the cup on its side with the opening toward the cauldron. It stayed and did not shift. She moved on to the North. As she stood there facing The High Priest with her hands uplifted, a coldness crept into her bare feet. They were numb on the ground before she could speak. Her teeth chattered.
“As bearer of Enceladus, the Fourth Face of Carles and the sacred trust of Skiddaw and our High Priestess, I summon the cildru of Skiddaw. Here at the Northern Gate, I place the sacred pentacles, earth mother, cycle of life and death, Enceladus, the Fourth Face of Carles.” The cold was so intense that Rebecca fell to her knees and did not even register the gasp of awe that emanated from the assembled coven as she revealed the shining black disk that bore the pentacles of Carles Castlerigg. As she held it in her hands she felt it begin to warm, to glow and generate heat that filled her body and sent the numbness receding from her feet.
Rebecca stood and continued to the East again. Her circle was complete, but still there was no fire. The cauldron remained black and cold on the unkindled wood. The Barber stood opposite her, arms folded across his arrogant chest, waiting, his eyes aglow with savored victory. Without flame her summons was still invalid. Just a spark. That was all that was necessary.
Rebecca governed her emotions to keep from striking out at the High Priest directly. Instead she began to hum to herself, going inside away from the circle and into its center. Finally, words came pouring out of her mouth that she could not suppress, nor had she ever realized the knowledge that they held. She swept up her own sacred tools from the spot where she had laid them.
“And now, furthermore, on my own authority, as High Priestess of Cobhan Carles, I summon the circle. For I received my Athamé, Elhin, from the hand of The Blade, bearer in his time of the First Face. I received my wand, Pele, from the hand of The Flame Keeper, bearer in his time of the Second Face. I received my cup, Lear, from The Water Maiden, bearer in her time of the Third Face. And I received my pentacles, Tamar, from the hand of The Goddess, ruler of all the Faces. So now as regent of all the powers of Carles, I command: Gather to Litha! The Sun King lives and from this point forth advances to harvest. Hyperion, show thyself!”
There was a moment of total silence as Rebecca’s voice died away. In that moment, she reached out her staff toward the cauldron. She had never felt so alone and exposed in all her life. She supposed that what seemed an eternity to her was less than a second in real time. She suddenly felt power and energy pouring into her from every direction. She had to laugh because the inrushing torrents tickled her from the center of her being. In the midst of her laughter she spun round, collecting the power pouring into her and when she finally returned again to face the firewood, she dropped her hands and said, “Burn, damn it!”
She had the fleeting thought that it was going to be difficult for some government technician to explain a nuclear explosion in the middle of northern England. She never heard the sound. A brilliant shaft of light connected her to the cauldron and to some unimagined third point far above, forming a triangle. The blast that followed the three sides connecting sent her sailing backward with such force that she blacked out, regained her consciousness and lost it again upon impact with the ground some yards behind her. The entire summoned circle fell backward with the shock and she knew before the blackness closed that The Barber had been thrown to the perimeter opposite her.
It seemed like an eternity had passed when her eyelids finally came unglued and she was once again conscious. But as they opened she could see the blaze of fire rising, not only from the burning wood around the cauldron, but from its vast interior—up like a laser beam and fountaining above their heads and spreading like an umbrella to reach the ground again at the perimeter of the circle. Soon all that was left of the shower of light was a wavering dome that surrounded the circle and the completely natural crackling of the fire beneath the cauldron.
Rebecca struggled to her feet using her own staff as a crutch to support herself. She staggered back toward the fire at the center of the circle. She raised her staff shakily in both hands and called out with all the strength that she could muster, “Let the great circle Carles Castlerigg come to Litha!” The shout of the assembled coveners echoed from the walls of the dome.
“So mote it be!”
“Burn, damn it?” Judith laughed as she hugged Rebecca at the center of the circle. “You get nuclear explosions from ‘Burn, damn it’?” They were laughing and being swept up in the dance around the fire. It was a time for madness and merriment—Midsummer Night. This night had had enough tensions. As they danced more and more wildly around the fire, the ceremonial robes fell from them and the glistening naked bodies sparkled in the firelight. As they danced, the men of the circle brought forward an image made of woven sticks and danced with the god figure around and around the circle. The women decked the woven figure with flowers and wreaths as it spun among them and they danced with it.
The excitement and charge in the air following Rebecca’s demonstration grew now as the entire circle raised its cone of solstice power for the celebration. At last the men were on one side of the circle and all the women on the other. Rebecca stepped up next to the fire seeing only the sun king opposite her. She was equally decked with flowers, a circlet in her hair and leis around her neck. At the very peak of the power she called out to him with arms outstretched, “Come to me!” and the men threw the stick figure into the flames.
The flames from the dry tinder leaped up and the flowers that had decorated it withered and were consumed. The celebrants fell back to sit around the fire and meditate in silence. Only Rebecca maintained her poise at the center with her arms outstretched in that ecstatic union with the sun king who was consumed by his own glory.
The flashfire slowly subsided. Rebecca looked through the flames into the eyes of her priest, his arms outstretched to match hers, the great stag-horned crown riding his head like the moon rode on her own. She had summoned him into the fire and now he seemed to step through it to catch her in his arms. Time was suspended as they stood, locked in each other’s gaze, the rest of her circle of friends unable to move or react to what they saw. Rebecca felt herself frozen in the moment.
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered, almost inaudibly. She knew he heard and understood as well as she heard his equally inaudible reply.
“For the same reason that I summoned the circle. Because I can. I can do anything. Like a god. I can summon fire. I can make it rain. I can change the daylight into darkness. They’ll all know this High Priest as one of the gods; a substitute no longer.”
“But why?”
“Because I can. And I have paid too dear a price for this power not to use it.” He crushed her against him in his burly arms, his mouth seeking the cold revulsion of her response. “You’ll be queen to me in spite of yourself,” he said pressing himself even more firmly against her. She could feel his hardness against her mound and her belly. “In consummating our reign, we will forge the new Athamé and I will rule it.”
“No one rules the Athamé of Carles. It is hopeless.”
She saw the flash of the ritual blade held high in his hand. At the sight of it, however, the spell was broken. She knew at once that she could not forge the new blade. Least of all could she submit to the beast that rode within her priest. He was less than a common criminal. She tapped a power deep within her and fed the image she saw of him out around her, letting it touch the minds of the spellbound coveners. The spell snapped. They rose at once in a sudden flurry of action and rushed to Rebecca’s aid, the demon no longer holding them in thrall.
The Barber swung her around in front of him, the knife now lowered to her throat, the altar stone of Carles at his back.
“Stay back!” he commanded. “The forging of a new blade for Carles is about to commence. The blood of our sacred priestess be on you if you interfere or refuse to cooperate.” Rebecca could feel the movement in the coven on all sides, but with the knife at her throat they would not risk moving on the possessed man. Rebecca first tried logic. If that failed she would be forced to something more desperate.
“You can’t give me that blade to forge the new Athamé,” she choked. “I know that knife and you did not make it. To be consecrated as a tool of the coven, it must come to my hand from its maker.”
“Very clever,” he said, “but that, too, I’ve taken care of. The knife you knew was dull except a sharpened point. When it came into my hands, I took the liberty of grinding and sharpening it myself. Now not only is it razor-keen, but I have participated in its making.”
“They’ll stop you.”
“Your brothers and sisters fear too much for your life to interfere with me. As long as they stay back, you are in no danger. And soon we will have our own protective wards and they will do nothing.”
“They may fear for my life, but I do not,” Rebecca growled.
She grabbed his knife hand in both her own. As she anticipated, it loosened the knife at her throat slightly. She felt him pull back on her to tighten the grip and instead of trying to duck out from under the blade, she threw her weight back against him in the same direction as he was pulling. With the unexpected added force, The Barber fell back a step, hit the low-lying altar stone that he had maneuvered them to, and fell backwards over it, carrying Rebecca with him as he went. With the jolt of that impact his hand loosened and she flung the arm away from her with all the force she could manage.
The knife went sailing from his hand and Rebecca was free.
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