Arts
She drew a breath, and everyone was silent, suddenly aware of the significance of what they were about to do. “Barefoot, if you please,” she said. They all took off shoes and socks. Sandra and Mark led the way to the basement stairs, and the Rose Feather Circle followed, quiet as mice. Down into the darkness they padded. They didn’t turn on the basement lights; Sandra had placed candles at intervals along the passage. The massive stone, the high ceilings, the still air, the gentle candlelight, the whisper of echoes—it didn’t seem gloomy, but it seemed, somehow, otherworldly. And ancient. Mark wondered just how old it was. The house dated to the late eighteen hundreds, he knew. But what had been on the site, before the house was built? When they reached the door to the chamber, Mark was surprised to see it standing open. He and Sandra stopped there, with the Circle behind them. “Did you leave the door open?” he asked softly. Sandra shook her head. “It’s a welcome, then,” Mark suggested. She nodded. Then she drew herself up and said in a clear voice, “Lady Brigit, the Rose Feather Circle have come to celebrate with you at Imbolc, as in ancient times. We thank you for your presence, and for your welcome.” She went into the chamber, and Mark followed. Behind them, one by one, the members of the Circle passed through the door. The waters of the pool were still and steaming, and the walls flickered as with firelight. Everyone was looking around the chamber in wonder. Lois seemed to know where north was—or at least, she took up her position confidently, between the pool and the left-hand wall—and the others followed her lead, forming their circle around the pool. Mark felt a shiver of awe, as he stepped into his place beside Lois. A queer vibration rose, pressing on his ears with many harmonics—Mark turned his head to listen, but it seemed to be coming from everywhere, uniformly. He felt as if he were inside one of the pipes of a vast organ, just coaxing out its softest sound. The vibration died away, and Mark waited, expecting Lois to begin the casting of the Circle by invoking the spirits of the earth, as she always had done. But she remained silent, her eyes closed. She seemed to be savoring the humid air with each slow breath. Finally, she spoke. “Merry meet, my friends,” she said. “We are guests in this sacred space, and in the Circle of the Lady. I feel her power and her welcome all around us. Therefore, I think we should not call the corners and cast the Circle in our usual way; to do so would be to ignore the fact that we are in the midst of a great working, already begun.” “Yes, Lady Lois,” said Sandra, “I feel that too. And I would also say, the great magic of this place does not feel at all solemn to me. It makes me feel like dancing. This healing well is a well of joy. So: even though we are so little, and the magic here is so big, let’s not let our spirits be dampened! Mark, I hear that you have a song for the Lady. I think this would be a good time to share it with her, and with all of us.” “Yes,” said Mark—but he felt suddenly embarrassed and reluctant. He’d been feeling grateful, shortly after his healing, and he’d written some words to the tune of “A-Rovin'"—an old sea shanty. The song had a lot of Brigit’s interests in it: music, and poetry, and fire, and healing, and a bit about flying with a broken wing. And it left the question of her name open, whether saint or goddess. He’d been pleased with it when he’d written it. But now, seemed too lighthearted to do in the presence of a goddess-or-whatever. “But I don’t know,” he stammered, “I mean, it’s just a little—it’s not really fitting for such a—it’s not really profound or anything, and—” But Lois insisted, rather sternly. “Don’t be foolish, Mark,” she admonished him. “Remember how the Lady spoke to you. Nothing of your own making will be unacceptable to her—you should know that!” Mark assented with a bow. At his signal,