Wings are mine; above the pole far aloft I soar.
Clothed with these, my nimble soul scorns earth's hated shore,
Cleaves the skies upon the wind, sees the clouds left far behind.
Thus each circling orb explores through night's stole that peers;
Then, when all are numbered, soars far beyond the spheres,
Mounting heaven's supremest height to the very Fount of light…
Excerpt from “The Soul’s Flight” – a poem by Boethius 524 AD
Through the top of her tent, Malgven peeked out at the moon, measuring its position. It was not yet one-third across the sky, but close. At the great bonfire earlier that evening, when her mother was distracted, the Arch Drui, Caelte, had passed her a small note. It said that if she wanted to pay her respects to the ancient oak tree, Irminsul, before the end of the great council gathering, it must be tonight. Near the mound by the high bank at the Lake of Aspens, when the moon reached one third of the way in the sky, she would meet the Drui… but not before.
Magnificent was the only way to describe the stories retold before all who attended the counsel bonfire. In a place of honor at her grandfather’s feet, Malgven and Gomatrud
listened, captivated. With the tales of adventure and journeys to far
away lands, the great Drui bard honored the heroes of old. She felt
herself swept back in time to witness her grandfather and his companions
in their youth, fighting daring battles with ferocious dragons,
protecting their loved ones from becoming fodder for the beasts. The
pain and anguish of fallen comrades who died in battle with the monsters
touched her soul. Mystic tales of an ancient people, half man, half
beast, that once roamed beside the fully human, enthralled her. At the
end of the tale, the bard exhibited treasured jeweled armaments the king of the Danes had
awarded his most loyal and heroic young
thegn. . . .
. . . .
Peering through the top of the tent, Malgven checked on the progress of the moon as it inched across the sky. She could tell by their steady breathing that the other occupants of the tent were sound asleep. It was time. Silently she slipped out of her bedroll, stuffing some clothing beneath the blankets so that it would appear that she still slept soundly.
Malgven grabbed her cloak and leggings. Slipping out into the night, once well away from any chance of discovery, she delayed only to put on her shoes. At a steady trot, she headed toward the mound. Her fingertips confirmed that her knife was well tethered at her waist. She wrapped her hand around it for courage. Personal safety was not her concern now. Malgven knew the deep respect the Druid held for her grandfather and for Grandmother Levinia. This knife from her father kindled the comfort of his strength within her, as she prepared to face the unknown.
A part of her felt a little uneasy. Consorting with the Drui was in direct defiance of her mother’s command, but she was determined to behold the legendary tree. She touched her knife again. It filled her heart with the courage she respected so much in her father. He would never retreat from the opportunity for such an adventure. When all was done, Malgven would confess her disobedience, accept her punishment, beg forgiveness, and receive a penance from Father Ouen. The escapade would be well worth any chastisement.
When she arrived at the lakeside mound, Caelte was waiting. Under the full moon, the surrounding aspens glowed with icy illumination. Caelte smiled at the young princess’s exuberance. “Good evening, My Lady Malgven. I am so glad you decided to partake in the rituals tonight. I took the liberty of bringing you appropriate attire for the visit. Would you be so kind as to change into these, please?” he requested.
She opened the bundle to find a garment similar to the one she had seen her grandmother wear, a small white linen robe with a wreath made of rosemary and lavender for her head. But there was something more…an exquisite, ornate gold armband, embellished with the knots of the ancients, with a circle of small honeybees on the edge. Malgven was very pleased. She dressed quickly and left her clothes at the mound. Her knife, the source of her comfort and courage, she tied to her waist as she approached Caelte.
With a nod, he acknowledged his approval of her appearance and turned into the woods, motioning for her to follow. “As we proceed down the path toward the great mound, where the stone shadows dance and Irminsul forever watches, others will be joining us. Do not be alarmed. Stay close to me.”
They passed the end of the lake and walked for quite some time, zigzagging up a steep hill. Finally, they approached the summit, which ended in a gentle rise. Now Caelte’s stride slowed. With serene reverence, he planted his staff very precisely with each step. Incandescent moonlight flooded the hillside, revealing many other participants approaching, both Druid and initiates. Malgven and Caelte took the lead, while the others fanned out in formation behind them.
As they passed over the ridge, Malgven gasped at the scene below. Bathed in moonlight stood a large ring of tall stones. Like a slow dance, their shadows moved toward a point where, when the moon reached its peak, they would meet in a perfect circle. On the right stood a silvery grove of oaks, ancient and huge in themselves, but off to the left, one regal oak dwarfed all others. “Irminsul…” whispered Malgven...