The Region of the Summer Stars

Winter is the time for stars. Then, if you can get away from street lights, on a clear night the sky is ablaze with them.

At this time of year there are not so many. But there is something magical in the faint stars of these pale summer nights. The stars that are there are less bright, flickering softly in the pale sky, gleaming against the afterglow of the late sunset. Last night with the scents of the day still redolent in the spice of the night, I could see the sickle shape of The Plough, one end of it pointing to the barely discernible North Star, the other end pointing to the soft red glow of Arcturus. I could see, too, the Twins, Castor and Pollux appearing almost alone among the barely visible faintness of the stars around them.

In the West, moving towards the horizon, the crescent of the Waxing Moon had a yellow-red hue as she followed the Sun behind the hill.

The overall effect was of a canopy of soft lamps in an enchanted enclosure. I was spellbound under a faërie sky.

Mererid

Mererid was a well maiden - she was the guardian of a well at the foot of the mountains, as they crept down to a wide low-lying plain with the sea beyond. The waters that fed the spring beneath the well came from the roots of the mountains, rising into the well in a steady stream, sweet and fresh as morning dew. Those that drank the water regularly felt its virtue in their daily lives, but many more came from far away to sample the water and carry some of it away with them. This was not begrudged as the stream running off from the well was always strong and clear and never failed even in the driest weather.

Mererid guarded her well with dedication, saying the right words of blessing to those who sampled the waters, addressing the water spirits at the appointed times and, sometimes, telling those who came what messages came to her on the rising stream. But one day some came who were not respectful of her office, who abused her in word and then in deed and left her, distraught, so the seal on the wellhead was undone and could not be put back.

The steady stream of the well became a rushing torrent, and the well shaft a fountain of gushing water which kept coming in pulse after pulse over the well surround and down to the lowlands below, spreading over the plain and drowning everything in its path. Houses, farms, woods and the sand dunes were soon all submerged so that now, the land is all under the sea and the well head is lapped by waves where a river has its estuary.

Sometimes, in the evening, when the light is fading and there is a grey mist over the sea, the sad lament of Mererid can be heard sighing over the waves. It is said that now she is one of the water spirits but that her human form has not quite left her and so she can at these times be seen indistinctly shimmering in the eddies of the river as it runs into the sea.

Relationships With Rivers

This advice from SACRED WATERS

Relating to a River ~~~~~

Always look upstream first to greet the oncoming waters and then downstream to bid farewell as they flow away.

Visit often, in different places, so you know your river in all her moods and circumstances (my river is female, so I write in that case, but yours might not be).

When crossing be aware of her, even if it is by road in a car, though you can discover places where a more intimate exchange is appropriate. As with your other  relationships, context is all.

Having chosen a special place where you can be intimate, offer gifts and listen to the water song. Find out what gifts your river likes, and how she wants to receive them.

The source and the estuary are special places, but not the only ones. If the source, in particular, is accessible and you can go there often, then do. But remember that a river has many sources in addition to the one we name. Be familiar with tributaries.

Every river flows from the wells of the Earth, carrying whispers from the Other World down to the great oceans. Each drop of water you drink is a blessing. Savour it, whatever flavour or other substance it carries into you. Likewise with flowing out.

Some rivers are gregarious and will love to meet your friends, others shy and difficult to get to know and these you should visit alone or with intimate friends only. Be sensitive: know those places which are private and those which are public. Most rivers have both.

When you visit, be prepared to carry away any rubbish that has been dumped, but remember that some things that you consider rubbish might be valuable to the river. Judge wisely.

MAY QUEEN

I went out to the wild places to see where the Spring had come, and where she was still biding her time in the closed bud's seclusion, and guarding warmth yet beneath the folded petals. The Earth was soft in the wooded cwm and I stood on a rock in the rushing stream while the waters flowed around me. To one side the bank was full of bright green leaves of wood-garlic, on the other the grey rock was piled high and clothed with a hundred shades of green and yellow from the many mosses that grow there - as beautiful and exotic a garden as one could wish for. Back on the bank I saw a single flower of wood-anemone showing bright yellow stamens in the white petals though the leaves were still unfolded. And yellow was the colour that speckled the green of the roadside verges, with coltsfoot in the gravelly place and daffodils by the garden paths and dandelion and celandine under the bare twigs on the hedges.

Now the day has come when the banks are brighted with as much yellow as there is green and primroses grace the woodland floor and the trees are a rustle of wind-blown leaves. So I watched for a while over the wood and my heart called out again to go to the place of trees: to see my lady there. Her green cowl about her brown hair, she walks through the grey woods. She treads a path of ragged leaves and petals open as she goes, yellow buds unfold on every green stem. She casts her green cloak over the brown land and the woods come alive to look upon her. Her dewy skin as soft as lady-fern leaves, and moist like a buttercup looks in the morning grass. The Wind sighs as her scent sails on the morning air.

A Dream

"It was by a pool such as this," said one of us, after a long interval, "that dreamers of old called to Connla, and Connla heard. That was the mortal name of one whose name we know not." "Call him now," whispered the Body eagerly. The Soul leaned forward, and stared into the fathomless brown dusk. "Speak, Connla! Who art thou?" .....


 "I am of those who wait yet a while. I am older than all age, for my youth is Wisdom; and I am younger than all youth, for I am named To-morrow." We heard no more. In vain, together, separately, we sought to break that silence which divides the mortal moment from hourless time. The Soul himself could not hear, or see, or even remember, because of that mortal raiment of the flesh which for a time he had voluntarily taken upon himself. "I will tell you a dream that is not all a dream," he said at last, after we had lain a long while pondering what that voice had uttered, ..... 

"It was night, and I was alone in a waste place. My feet were entangled among briars and thorns, and beside me was a quagmire. On the briar grew a great staff, and beside it a circlet of woven thorn. I could see them, in a soft, white light. It must have been moonlight, for on the other side of the briar I saw, in the moonshine, a maze of wild roses. They were lovely and fragrant. I would have liked to take the staff, but it was circled with the thorn-wreath; so I turned to the moonshine and the wild roses. It was then that I saw a multitude of tall and lovely figures, men and women, all rose-crowned, and the pale, beautiful faces of the women with lips like rose-leaves. They were singing. It was the Song of Delight. I, too, sang. And as I sang, I wondered, for I thought that the eyes of those about me were heavy with love and dreams, as though each had been pierced with a shadowy thorn. But still the song rose, and I knew that the flowers in the grass breathed to it, and that the vast slow cadence of the stars was its majestic measure. Then the dawn broke, and I saw all the company, winged and crested with the seven colours, press together, so that a rainbow was upbuilded. In the middle space below the rainbow, a bird sang. Then I knew I was that bird; and as the rainbow vanished, and the dawn grew grey and chill, I sank to the ground. But it was all bog and swamp. I knew I should sing no more. But I heard voices saying: "O happy, wonderful bird, who has seen all delight, whose song was so rapt, sing, sing, sing!" 

Fiona Macleod

Wood Thoughts

At the entrance to the dark wood, the archetypal place for being lost, led astray willingly for, after all, who would set foot on the dim path that leads down into the hollow where the dank mud by the stream, shaded for all the months of summer, scents the damp air with a spice of decay, if it were not for some desire for what might be found there?

Willingly, I say, bewildered. In a place of fear and longing hardly daring to know where the path leads .....

..... but knowing deep down - with a desire that overcomes dread - where it may end

The Huldra

Huldra by John Bauer (1882-1918)

The Huldra inhabits the lands of the North. She has the appearance of an alluring young woman but from behind sometimes a tail can be seen, or she has a hollow back of what looks like tree bark. In some stories she is friendly if approached properly and might offer advice such as where the best fishing is. In others she is dangerous, often leading young men attracted to her to horrible deaths. Elsewhere in the world similar stories are told of mermaids or beings such as Lamia. They seem to represent a deep-seated fear of the wild, of sexuality, and of otherness. At the same time there is an element of relationship here too with something we have lost but which we can still reach out to, even though it seems perilous to do so.

There is also a moral element creeping in, dictating what we should, and should not, desire. It is not so much in the darkness but in the twilight, or in the case of the Huldra, the eerie light of perpetual summer for a few months north of the Arctic Circle, in which such creatures have their being. They are part of the world that is invisible to us most of the time. But a world we can see, hear and perhaps even touch if we choose to discover the vision that will enable us to do so.