I leave the shelter of the grove ducking beneath twisted hawthorn branches. The trees weave the entrance closed behind me. Rain hits my face, falling from a heaven of relentless grey. Reading the sky’s grimace I wonder what has been seen.
A crow caws his warning. Sprinting toward me up the hollow way I see a young man, legs a blur of blue white checkers and feet a splash of mud and leather. Hair slicked to his head, his dark eyes flicker with awe and wariness. The first dapples of a beard play across his chin like leafy shadows.
“M-my Lady of the Oak,” he stammers pulling up.
His breathless chest heaves beneath a sodden tunic. It is rare for youths to approach me without an elder. Looking more closely at my gnarled face his eyes widen in dawning horror. “Bad news travels from up river. A Man of the Oak wishes to speak with you.” He runs away in a flurry of muddy feet.
I follow down the hollow way heedless of the downpour weighing my cloak for the damp of the air already resides deep within my bones. Looking east, rain drenches the green hill, our sacred headland, and the greener barrow housing our ancestors. The torrent’s drumming beat strikes bubbles across the marsh land. As I walk onto the wooden pad way the reeds hiss like snakes. Decay bites my throat. The steely cast of the river of shining water reflects the glumness of the sky.
In a canoe roped to the jetty my cousin Drust sits hunched in his robes. I question what he is doing here, alone.
The river’s song answers. Her visions flood my mind. I see the battle at the ford of roaring water. Broken chariots, tribesmen slaughtered, the hero light vanishing from their eyes like fleeing stars. The eagle standard flies high, reflected in the crimson river. Seeing the pale flicker of their separating ghosts I speak a prayer for the souls doomed to return to a land where they no longer belong.
Sorrow chokes me like bile. I vomit it in anger at Drust, “what are you doing here, when your clan are dead?”
Drust looks up, yet his face remains hidden by his cowl. “I am taking the remnants of our traditions and our gods to the island across the sea.”
I laugh, a throaty brittle sound like twigs twisting and snapping. “Gods are not like saplings, to be taken away and re-rooted and traditions are not nurtured by foreign soils. It seems the ideas of the invaders have penetrated more deeply than I imagined.”
Drust tenses. Drawing my knife from its leather sheath I lean down and slice the rope tying his canoe to the jetty. The river sluices him west and out to sea.
The wind carries enemy voices. Reflected in the falling droplets I see swords and plumed helms. Slipping on the wood and slithering up the hollow way I reach the grove and beg the hawthorns for passage. A peace of ancient green breaks over me, like I’m sinking into a bed of moss. Beneath the canopy’s protective shadow I believe myself safe until tumult disturbs the roots. Crows caw, anticipating carrion.
I cross a sea of acorns and approach the grove’s mighty king. Putting my arms around his trunk, I press my face to the rough bark. “Brother Oak, let me see into the future.”
My heartbeat merges with the pulse of rising sap. My feet become roots reaching downward through damp soil to the outer edges of the grove. My arms stretch into branches and split, bearing bunches of lobed leaves nourished by the hidden sun, washed by the rain, flourishing green.
The ground shudders at the march of soldiers, galloping hooves and chariot wheels. Battle cries are hollered. Bows hum to the crash of metal. Screams and groans rock me. I taste blood and its bitterness fills me.
Earth and water shift as ditches are cut, fields plundered to feed the enemy. Ancestral ghosts clutch my twigs shrieking of their barrow torn down and a temple built to a foreign god. I moan at the ache of rot softening my flesh, bowing and creaking as my branches snap and innards hollow. I beg for lightning’s merciful release but there is no answer from the clouds of sorrow.
“Brother, let me return,” I speak. “The tribe need my support in their defeat.”
I ease back from the oak as the hawthorns scream and turn to see branches broken, shredded leaves and burst haws at the sandaled feet of a man dressed in a plumed helmet, iron breast plate and red woollen tunic. His eyes are blue, skin tanned by the sun of a hotter land. Brandishing a sword stained with blood and sap he accuses me of witchcraft, of sacrificing innocents to divine the future from their death throes.
I smile. The man freezes in horror. I draw my knife and mustering all my oaken might I drive it between the iron plates and slice open his stomach, spilling his guts upon the grass. Attempting to gather them in like rope he drops twitching and groaning to his knees.
I read the future of his people and their empire from his pulsing entrails.
Kneeling, I pick up a handful of blood soaked acorns and address my brother, “do not fear. Whilst tribes and empires rise and fall, the steady strength of oak will conquer all.”
6 thoughts on “Lady of the Oak”
Very good, and sad, yet hopeful story Lorna. I like how the Lady of the Oaks is a tree and a spirit or priestess of the oaks at the same time. The imagery reminds me of pictures of the WWI battlefields where the trees are just shredded bases at the end, and yet they grow back. When i first moved here i had a 300+ year old hollow bear oak tree (there was a bear head obvious in one of its knots) that was barely alive at the top most branches. Then the gypsy moths killed those off one summer and about two years later that great oak fell, not harming any other surrounding trees by the way. It made me very sad, but then i looked around at all the younger oaks growing around it, knowing it had procreated into progeny. Now is lies rotting and i actually can scoop out some of the wonderful mulch in it for my herb garden. And i have a little shrine there where one piece still stands with a hold in it the winter sun shines through. There are a few pictures in this post http://blausternschlonge.wordpress.com/2012/11/05/the-fey-in-the-woods-around-me/ Blessings.
Reblogged this on Blau Stern Schwarz Schlonge and commented:
My comment – Very good, and sad, yet hopeful story Lorna. I like how the Lady of the Oaks is a tree and a spirit or priestess of the oaks at the same time. The imagery reminds me of pictures of the WWI battlefields where the trees are just shredded bases at the end, and yet they grow back. When i first moved here i had a 300+ year old hollow bear oak tree (there was a bear head obvious in one of its knots) that was barely alive at the top most branches. Then the gypsy moths killed those off one summer and about two years later that great oak fell, not harming any other surrounding trees by the way. It made me very sad, but then i looked around at all the younger oaks growing around it, knowing it had procreated into progeny. Now is lies rotting and i actually can scoop out some of the wonderful mulch in it for my herb garden. And i have a little shrine there where one piece still stands with a hold in it the winter sun shines through. There are a few pictures in this post http://blausternschlonge.wordpress.com/2012/11/05/the-fey-in-the-woods-around-me/ Blessings.
A wonderful story, bearing a kernal of the wisdom we often forget. Thank you.
A beautiful story, almost a vision of what the Romans’ did on Mona. But its hopeful as well as sad because of course empires don’t last whilst nature does.
It has been a strange journey that has brought me to this wonderful but tragic poem. On Saturday I went to see the gates of Lancaster Castle open up to the public, the armed guards ceremoniously left the building and disappeared, leaving it free for everyone to observe. According to the people with all the letters after their name it was the Romans who founded it originally as a fort, my instincts suggested otherwise.
Hopefully, one day, the world will be rid of empires as the road to peace is not laden with foot soldiers. Until then we can only start in our own neibourhood and hope the rest catch up.
Some people do paint their faces blue and white on a Saturday afternoon, at the Giant Axe, to support their football team. I doubt any of them would be aware of the connection!
Hi Gregory, thanks for your visit and comment. Lancaster is a very interesting place with alot of history. However history is always written by the victors, which leaves the rest of us to to keep alive the stories of our localities.