It’s a cold and blustering winter’s night, though the young Ovid knew that winter is very likely to get colder. He looked into the faces of the Druids and Bards to know why he was out in the cold, hungry, and tired from the late night vigil. None of the masters were talking; it was forbidden. The masters communicated through gestures, such as the one that reminded the boy not to make a fire. So, he knelt, shivered, and reflected.
This was going to be his first Yule Tide without his mother or father. She was in labor for five days … she suffered so much. One of the Sorceress’ was called on the fifth day. She determined the infant was dead. Yet, there was nothing to be done, for the mother was already escorting the infant to Affalon, to rest, to forget. The young Ovid’s heart rose into his throat at the memory. His master rested a hand on the boy’s head, gesturing for him to follow.
The young Ovid rose to his feet, the master offering a gentle hand. His eyes were wet as he looked into the ancient druid’s eyes, patiently waiting for the boy to follow. The old master’s eyes were gray with age, not brown like his father’s. Distraught, the father had left the boy with the druids for study, saying he would not be worth much to the boy, and the boy deserved better. The old master was gentle with the boy, yet did not let the boy rest too long, not on his failures, not on his laurels, not on his grief. Did the Master understand what it was like to lose a mother?
The initiates had gathered about a large pile of wood. At the center was a carving of an old man, carrying a baby boy. In a nearby cave, the young Ovid heard a moan he remembered from a year ago. Tired and hungry from five days of fasting and devotions he broke down. He did not care anymore if crying would be aloud … he need not speak to do that. His master knelt down and gently embraced this student of his. The boy wept freely, as the cries rose to screams. Then, the cave was silent. The Druid stepping out of the Cave had Stag’s antlers on his head, and a torch in his hand. The young Ovid wondered if the tattoos kept the Druid warm without cloths on.
The young Ovid tried to calm himself. The Druid coming from the cave was singing. It was so soft the boy could not tell what the song was. His Master rose to his own feet and took up the chant. His soft tenor voice was tamed by decades of service. Druid and Bard each took up the repose. None sang loud enough to be heard, yet all contributing to the gentle echoes reverberating from the trees, ground, and cave.
The Druid with the Stag antlers drew near the stack of wood, and shouted, “It has been done! The King is Dead; the Queen is gone! Long live the Child!” Then with the speed and violence of Lightning he slammed the torch into the stack of wood, igniting the kindling, igniting the wood, bringing warmth and light to this dark wood.
The Ovid did not have time to be confused, nor to figure it all out. His master had lifted the boy with a strength that betrayed his age and kissed the boy with joy and love. All around, old and young, Druid, Bard and Ovid were embracing and welcoming the New Year. It has been done! The King is Dead; the Queen is gone! Long live the Child!
Written by Magus Thom Potter; 2003