This tale was first given here a very long time ago, when my blog was new and limping along, often neglected. Still, I decided to retrieve it and share it to mark a day that once was signfiant to my Celtic ancestors and wonder if perhaps in writing it I drew on a vague memory that one of them or even a prior avatar of the energy entity that today is me actually lived at least some simiilar events. The actual festival by tradition would run from sundown on May 1 to sunset on May 2nd but we do not mark time that way today. I can even say it started at sundown last evening! Without further ado, I give you May Day, 1589...
Today is May first, 1589.The winter has been harsh
in England, this season past, in the thirty first year of the reign of
Queen Bess. Spring comes as a blessing, a respite. Finally we are freed of the
oppressive snow and gnawing cold. The leaves are again green and streams leap
and dance, full to the brink. Valleys and glens in the low-lying areas are
briefly flooded as the mild weather melts the snow from the highlands.
As a fosterling in a western hold on the Welsh border, I do not
have high expectations. I know I shall not be May Queen nor even have a
truly new dress, but I can still welcome spring and the Mayfest. I know there
are those who scorn it as a pagan day, a sinful flaunting of the proper
sobriety of good Christian folk…the May Queen, the Jack ‘o the Green and the
rest. They term sin the licentiousness, the Balefires; even perhaps the May
Pole and the Morries Dancers are frowned upon. But here, where the lady of the
manor is Welsh and not too taken with the new religions, be they Papish,
Knoxist or even the New Church of the late King Hal…we turn a blind eye to such grim
rules.
So it is Margery, her ladyship’s youngest daughter, who will be
clad in the May Queen’s white with flowers crowning her bright head, ridden in
the blossom-decked cart pulled by several of the village’s sturdy lads who deem
it a great honor to be her team. There are even flowers for my mouse brown hair
and a dress of green, handed down from Margery’s elder sister, wed the summer
past and gone south and east with her groom. And I, with the other young folk,
can dance a ribband around the peeled log set in the Commons. There are no
duties this day. As I join the gathering throng, I see it is Tam, the miller’s
half-wild son, who will be Jack, clad in tatters and leaves, spikes and
ringlets of his dark auburn hair thrusting out through his leafy cap.
Tam capers around the cart that the other youths draw, carrying
Margery. Most of the time he is just Tam, stern faced and solitary, the
miller’s half-mad boy. But today, this one day, he is like one possessed, fey
of eye and madly gay, flirting a tail of green-dyed horse hair as he leaps and
cavorts. Even his eyes seem green… Are they not usually gray or at the most
hazel? He stops and looks at me, peering into my face as if he had never seen
me before. I want to draw back, to vanish into the crowd but after a moment he
moves on.
“It’s just Tam,” I tell myself. “Only weird, wild Tam, playing a
foolish Mayday game.” But as I hurry on, I stay as close as I can to Margery’s
cart even though we are nothing like friends. She never lets me forget that I
am poor kin, dependent upon the charity of her parents.
It has been nigh two years now that I have been here with them.
Uncle Geoff and Aunt Mattie and their two youngest, Margery and little Jeff’ry
now twelve and fostered away as the nobility tends to do. I am fifteen, tall
for a girl. Margery is but a month younger, shorter than I but more full bodied
with golden hair and blue eyes. My mother was Aunt Mattie’s baby sister. They
say she married beneath her station and my da died at sea, leaving her with
almost nothing. She went back to her old home in the Welsh hills, there to die
three years later, leaving me alone. Two of the old family retainers brought me
to Aunt Mattie, the nearest kin they knew. Since then I have been something
more than a lady’s maid to Margery but much, much less than an equal.
I fell to thinking as we went along, winding about the village
lanes, how different it was here. I could vaguely recall our home on the coast,
a stone house in a fishing village of which da’s father was the head man. Then
there was the crumbling manor of stone and timber, once the Big House on the
Hill but even when we came to it, a crumbling ruin of all it might once have
been. Here the Keep was mostly timber and stood at the head of the valley, well
kept and proud still. Yes, it was different here, hard to learn to be nobody of
any note or importance.
With my mind’s eyes turned inward I had not realized we’d reached
the Commons. There was a scramble for the ribbands and then as the village band
struck up the Maying tune, the dance began. Tam darted in and out among us,
ducking the ribbands, twisting as agily as a hare fleeing the hounds. For a
moment he danced backwards, keeping pace and facing me. This time he did not so
much frighten me as strike a spark of matching wildness which I had not known I
harbored. He was whistling, a thin wild wail of counterpoint to the band’s
tune. He stopped for breath and smiled at me, teeth flashing bright in his mud-daubed
face, nearly as vivid as his eyes. Then he winked and danced away.
I nearly missed a turn, ducked quickly under a ribband held by the
baillie’s stout son. Then I had to arch out and reach high to take my strand
over one held by tall Jaime, one of the laird’s squires. Usually just being
near him made my heart skip a beat and saw me go pink in confusion, but this
time, all I could think of was Tam while Jaime seemed over-tall and awkward as
a scarecrow.
I could not fathom what was happening, so I danced blindly on
until the ribbands were woven almost to the ground, encasing the pole. The rest
of the day passed in a blur and I cannot really remember anything until after
sunset, when we gathered again to await the lighting of the Balefire. This rite
was even more ancient than the Maypole dance, and here the May Queen had no
role. This night belonged to Jack o’ the Green. It was his command that set the
first spark alight on the heap of last season' straw and gathered wood. He was
the first dancer to leap, up, through and over the flames. This was a dance for
only the men and for only the boldest, strongest and youngest ones.
Margery still wore her white gown, a fresh crown of flowers about
her brow and there were still many who paid court to her, but the fire was now
the center of attention. The fire and Jack. I was no exception, watching
Tam’s every move in total fascination.
Gradually the blaze sank and as gradually, the leaping youths
chose a maid and slipped away. Suddenly there was hardly anyone left and the
light of the wild red flames turned dusky. I blinked in the darkness, saw that
Margery was gone, and then felt a hand catch mine. Strong masculine fingers
entwined with mine and a callused palm rasped against my softer skin. Out of
the dark a voice said, “Come.” It seemed a voice I did not know yet it
also seemed I had waited all my life to hear it. Although I could not see at
all, as if in the dark at the bottom of a deep well, that hand led me steadily
and my feet found sure purchase for each step. We went up a steep path the
wound as it went.
“Wait,” a caution said within me. “There is no such path as this
so close to the village. You know not where you go or who is leading you
thence!” But my new wild self laughed in abandon and paid no heed. “I will
go where I am led this night.”
A wind sprang up and the air turned cooler, scented with a
salt-sea flavor. The leaves rustled in a manner more of autumn than spring. At
least we came down a short way into a little dell. Then I could again see—my gaze
discerned the outlines of tall, rough hills, dark against the star-strewn sky.
Even the stars did not look familiar.
I stared upward, puzzled, and then in a moment found myself on my
back, bedded in a sweet softness of grass and leaves that cushioned me well
even as an unfamiliar weight bore me down against the earth. The wind sang wild
in the trees nearby but that cry did not reach me, though I felt its stir as
the air caressed my damp, bare skin. Somehow the green gown was off and laid
aside.
A burning pain lanced through my body briefly but it was followed
and replaced by a thousand shapes and shades of delight that finally melded
into a crescendo of trembling, twisting power. It was if I was torn apart and
remade in a second. My lover did not speak nor could I see him as more than a
dim shape but I think he hummed a faint air, a harmony with the wind’s song,
combining Greensleeves with Tam’s whistle.
In the darkest lateness of the night I slept at last, wrapped in a
heavy cloak that was mossy and warm. Perhaps I dreamed. Perhaps it was all a
dream...
When morning came, I awoke and found myself lying on my regular
pallet in the anteroom of Margery’s chamber. I lay angled across it, still in
yesterday’s gown and there were leaves in my hair. At first it seemed an
unfamiliar tenderness lingered on and in my body but it faded as I rose and
went about my tasks. May second was no holiday. If I thought of the night, it
seemed as if it had been a dream. In my mind a shadow of a shadow lingered but
I could never get closer to a true memory than that. Still, by midsummer I knew
I was with child.
Out here in the western borders, it is no shame to bear a May Eve
babe. Such a child needed no father, only a mother, and would never bear the
brand of bastard or hedge-baby. Indeed they were honored as gifted and fey.
Despite that, I was not left to birth my babe alone, for at harvest I was wed
to Jamie and soon became the chatelaine or housekeeper under Aunt Mattie’s
direction.
It was not until that first child, a girl, was old enough to
herself go a-Maying having past fourteen winters that I chanced to learn Tam
was also a May eve babe, born to the miller’s daughter who died in childbirth,
leaving a son for her parents to raise. There was now nothing wild about Tam.
He’d became the miller in the old man’s stead, a bit heavy in the middle as his
gamper had been, and wed to a rosy-cheeked Welsh girl who bore him a half dozen
dark and lively children. My Mary May was dark of hair but otherwise as fair
faced as blonde Margery’s daughters. Mary May had gray eyes.
Aunt Mattie seemed old now, and after Uncle Geoff died, she
quickly went stooped and gray, finally going off to a priory to end her days
with the nuns. Jeff’ry is the new laird, wed to a thin, pale slip of a girl
from far to the east. They say the old ways are dying out, but surely they will
have a Maypole and later the Bale fires. My Jaime is grounded now after a young
horse fell and crushed his leg. It grew back too crooked for the stirrup but he
serves as Baillie while I am now housekeeper for Jeff’ry’s lady.
I sit this late April day making a May gown for Mary, hurried in
my stitching since it is but two nights away. Below she is playing in the
courtyard with Marjory’s two younger girls and the laird’s little daughter,
Guinevere. Mary calls to her little sister Johanna, drawing the child into the
game, Ring Around the Rosy. They are all laughing, sweet and innocent, until
Mary feels my eyes on her and looks up, smiling. She waves a slim white hand
and tosses a kiss. Soon some lad will be the target of that gesture.
“No,” I pray silently, not sure if I call on the ancient Lady of
our people or the other Mary, mother of Jesus. “Not yet, not this year!”
I suspect it is a vain prayer. Time will not stand still. My daughter’s
shape in her outgrown dress is no longer that of a child and as her ladyship’s
brother, visiting for the season, walks by carefully ignoring her, she sighs.
He is older, at least sixteen, and rumor has it he was banished from court for
gambling and wenching, even beyond the extent expected of a young nobleman in
these wicked days. He has the face of a petulant child but also a glamour the
girls see, the reflected glory of the court and the capitol.
Ah, better Jack than a lecherous lout like that, and it will be
someone soon. Someone for my daughter… I shake off my fey mood and resume my
stitching. It may be small of me, but I am glad that Margery’s eldest girl is
fostered along with her brother while the younger ones are barely out of
swaddlings, and little Gwinnie is still small as well. Mary will be alone to
represent the lasses of the manor.
I remember back fifteen years and wonder who will wear the Jack’s
green and tail this Mayday. There’s a tinker who has come through, trading
horses and he has a son, a canny black-eyed lad, too old seeming for his
apparent years…but that would probably be too obvious. It may be one of our
own, an ordinary lad you hardly see in an everyday way.
There will be a May Queen too, some girl from the village. It
won’t be Mary but she will not be out-shown, clad in a new gown and well decked
with flowers. After all, Jack never chooses the May Queen. Will he recognize a
kinship with my Mary and lead her away into some distant hills after the fire
dies?
In many ways I dread it. The experience left me forever with a dim
longing and melancholy for what can never happen again. But I would not have
missed it for the world. I have my daughter… And after all that, I think I made
Jaime a good wife. I have given him two sturdy sons and a little daughter with
his rusty-colored hair; I have mended his clothes and healed his injuries, seen
him well fed and bedded, and sent him off twice to battles from which, saints
be praised, he returned hale and whole.
Still, sometimes when the wind blows just so, my feet itch for a
hilly path and I hum under my breath, a wild nameless tune. For a day or two I
cannot abide Jaime’s touch and chafe sorely at the tedious sameness of my days.
Go in peace and harmony into the new season , friends, for spring truly does come and Beltaine marks it even in some colder and harsher climes. Here in the desert it comes in fits and starts and often lingers but briefly before summer sweeps it ruthlessly aside with the brassy blue skies of the days before the rainy season--which has been sparse and giving little relief of late. I enjoy the flowers, scattered this year, and the returning birds and wonder if I once knew something very different...
