A bit of flash fiction* to mark May Day - Beltane Flame
Posted: Wed May 02, 2007 11:43 am
Beltane Flame
“Light the fire boy, bach.”
The walls of around them glistened with sweat. A tiny spring bubbled from the ancient stone. Bran leaned over the pile. Not quite a bonfire, but more than a cookfire. Since they were poor it was the best they could do. Before he lit the wood he glanced once at the open sky and nodded to the goddess wheeling overhead.
“It’s your first Beltane, set the spark well, bach.” The old man hunched against the broken stones, grizzled cheeks and pale eyes shadows in the twilight, as different from Bran as a goat from a sheep but love bound them. The old man nodded and gestured with his hands, “Get on then!”
Bran hesitated and then plunged the costly taper into the brush. He blew on it until a resolute flame shot up through the pile like a bright plinth, feeding on everything in its path. Pleased, he sat back on his hunches and looked to his father for approval.
“Well done,” the old man muttered and stood to do his part.
“Ye Fey that hark to our lonely flame, I present the boy, Bran McUruhu. Mark him well, and favor ‘im if ee will. He be a good lad as done no Man nor Fey wrong. The best son an old man could ask, and I thank ‘ee well, as a basket ‘o apples each year on the hill will tell.”
Settling again, the old man smiled at Bran, a quick lightening of his sharp face. Bran smiled back and took off his shirt; he pulled his drum around and gripped it between his knees. He let the fire be his muse and pulled a rhythm from the stretched hide. Joy and dread sent tingles down his spine.
Would they hear? Would they come?
Bran had seen one of the Fey in the wood not long ago. She had been as pale as he was dark, hair hung to her thighs like black vines. Her eyes had wounded him and she stayed a moment to look him over. He knew better than to pursue her before the Beltane fire was lit and he was chosen. Once the Hard Men had perused the Fey and nearly enslaved them – before they had run. Now they were seldom seen aboveground. Tales were told of their caverns and their magic. The way they carried light without fire and never seemed to want for food.
He began to sing -- a song of hope without words.
“Ah – yah yah yah – Yah. Ah yih yih yih.” He swayed with the rhythm. His hands flashed across the surface of the drum. The fire leapt up to greet the falling night. It would blaze bright, but without a blessing it wouldn’t last long.
Bran lost himself in his song. If he sang well, if he pleased them, next Beltane there would be a bonny lad, new pearl teeth ready for their first taste of porridge. Howling and healthy. Bran smiled at the idea of a son. Sweat began to drip from his hair. His hands leapt faster, each finger bloomed with a note. He almost forgot his task in the glory of the music.
Long ago the Men and the Fey dwelt together, but that time was gone. Those Who Killed had wanted to own their own kind. The Fey had trumped them in the end and hid underground. Now all men had to walk alone, without their grace. But in the end there was peace. Now, once a year, Men and Fey met on Beltane – Mayeve. In this manner the men got their sons and Fey got their daughters, and so life went on. Legend said someday they would walk together again, when they both forgot how to kill.
Bran thought of the lamb slaughtered at Sunreturn.
He started, terrified, and opened his eyes wide to the dark beyond the fire. Lights shown from the wood, steadily growing closer. Their eyes gleamed under the pinpoints of light they held aloft. Three girls (two pale and one as dark as he) smiled down at him and stood before the fire. The black haired one was with them. They began to dance to his rhythm, the fire danced with them.
Bran sat straight; the ropes of his hair swung as he played a flourish upon the drum and grinned at his wives. Next year there would be a boy. He was sure.
*Flash fiction (as I understand it) is an idea that you jot down without much self editing. It can be very liberating, but it also means it's not very refined, so please forgive, but feel free to mention any criticisms of the writing.
“Light the fire boy, bach.”
The walls of around them glistened with sweat. A tiny spring bubbled from the ancient stone. Bran leaned over the pile. Not quite a bonfire, but more than a cookfire. Since they were poor it was the best they could do. Before he lit the wood he glanced once at the open sky and nodded to the goddess wheeling overhead.
“It’s your first Beltane, set the spark well, bach.” The old man hunched against the broken stones, grizzled cheeks and pale eyes shadows in the twilight, as different from Bran as a goat from a sheep but love bound them. The old man nodded and gestured with his hands, “Get on then!”
Bran hesitated and then plunged the costly taper into the brush. He blew on it until a resolute flame shot up through the pile like a bright plinth, feeding on everything in its path. Pleased, he sat back on his hunches and looked to his father for approval.
“Well done,” the old man muttered and stood to do his part.
“Ye Fey that hark to our lonely flame, I present the boy, Bran McUruhu. Mark him well, and favor ‘im if ee will. He be a good lad as done no Man nor Fey wrong. The best son an old man could ask, and I thank ‘ee well, as a basket ‘o apples each year on the hill will tell.”
Settling again, the old man smiled at Bran, a quick lightening of his sharp face. Bran smiled back and took off his shirt; he pulled his drum around and gripped it between his knees. He let the fire be his muse and pulled a rhythm from the stretched hide. Joy and dread sent tingles down his spine.
Would they hear? Would they come?
Bran had seen one of the Fey in the wood not long ago. She had been as pale as he was dark, hair hung to her thighs like black vines. Her eyes had wounded him and she stayed a moment to look him over. He knew better than to pursue her before the Beltane fire was lit and he was chosen. Once the Hard Men had perused the Fey and nearly enslaved them – before they had run. Now they were seldom seen aboveground. Tales were told of their caverns and their magic. The way they carried light without fire and never seemed to want for food.
He began to sing -- a song of hope without words.
“Ah – yah yah yah – Yah. Ah yih yih yih.” He swayed with the rhythm. His hands flashed across the surface of the drum. The fire leapt up to greet the falling night. It would blaze bright, but without a blessing it wouldn’t last long.
Bran lost himself in his song. If he sang well, if he pleased them, next Beltane there would be a bonny lad, new pearl teeth ready for their first taste of porridge. Howling and healthy. Bran smiled at the idea of a son. Sweat began to drip from his hair. His hands leapt faster, each finger bloomed with a note. He almost forgot his task in the glory of the music.
Long ago the Men and the Fey dwelt together, but that time was gone. Those Who Killed had wanted to own their own kind. The Fey had trumped them in the end and hid underground. Now all men had to walk alone, without their grace. But in the end there was peace. Now, once a year, Men and Fey met on Beltane – Mayeve. In this manner the men got their sons and Fey got their daughters, and so life went on. Legend said someday they would walk together again, when they both forgot how to kill.
Bran thought of the lamb slaughtered at Sunreturn.
He started, terrified, and opened his eyes wide to the dark beyond the fire. Lights shown from the wood, steadily growing closer. Their eyes gleamed under the pinpoints of light they held aloft. Three girls (two pale and one as dark as he) smiled down at him and stood before the fire. The black haired one was with them. They began to dance to his rhythm, the fire danced with them.
Bran sat straight; the ropes of his hair swung as he played a flourish upon the drum and grinned at his wives. Next year there would be a boy. He was sure.
*Flash fiction (as I understand it) is an idea that you jot down without much self editing. It can be very liberating, but it also means it's not very refined, so please forgive, but feel free to mention any criticisms of the writing.