The Hayward

by Peter Miller

A light snow whirled down over the lip of the High Mountains, settling in a thin white veil on the branches of the trees. Emrys held his bundle close to his chest, tucked in under his robe. The smell of burnt witch-hazel and juniper drifted back from the front of the line of huddled figures that made its way up the side of the hill toward the Old Tree. Every now and then he could see the glow of the burning branches and hear the low tones of the supplication that the priests made to the mountain spirits.

He loved this time of year. The cold hard air that foretold the bitterness of winter yet to come, the making of the Gifts, and the wonderful food; berry preserves and hazelnuts, roasted pheasants, smoked ham, apples and turnips, and honey cakes and sweet ale. His father would always complain that this had been a hard year, and no-one should expect too much, and that the most important thing was that they had each other, and yet, every year there were surprises, and treats, and wonderful treasures. Emrys knew this year would be no different, and he thanked the Spirit for his good fortune and for his health.

He had spared no effort for his Gift. He had hunted through the Stunted Woods for the shiny stalks of red ferns, and down by the sea for small shards of mother-of-pearl. He had chipped and polished pieces of black sea-stone till they were round and smooth, and he had collected feathers from the great black birds that dwelled in the ancient chalk cliffs. His Gift was the best he had ever made, perfect in every way. The Spirit would look down on him with the greatest good will.

The singing began and he felt his heart leap.

More witch-hazel brands flared into brightness at the head of the procession, and Emrys could see the flames dancing backward toward him as those ahead turned to light the torches of those behind. It was a marvellous and magical sight.

They came at last into the level clearing around the Old Tree. The singers finished their verses and the night was quiet, but for the slight whispers of wind in the leaves. The Saintly Torchbearers, those anointed to lead this year’s procession, moved to the huge pyres of dried juniper and oak and pushed their flaming brands deep inside the fragrant wood. Ruby wisps of flame twisted up into the dark shapes, until they burst brightly with ruddy light. Swirls of snowflakes spiralled down from the deepening blue of the sky to meet eddies of sparks that blushed from the fires.

Emrys gasped with delight. It was magnificent. He looked at his mother and his father with their faces lit by the warm orange light and he thought ‘I will remember this moment so deeply that I will never ever forget’ and he closed his eyes and wished the memory into his dreams.

The Servers of the Forest Spirit moved through the crowd with baskets of honey cakes that they passed out to men and women and children alike. “May the Spirit watch over you,” they said, and their eyes smiled and they touched each and every person on the brow.

His mother bent down to him and gave him a sprig of mistletoe.

“May the Spirit watch over you, Emrys. May this Samhain bring you all good things,” and she kissed him on the hands.

A quiet ran through the crowd. Senias, the Forest Keeper moved forward to stand before the Old Tree. His white hair and his long beard seemed fierce and bloody in the firelight. He held up his oak staff and struck it on the ground three times.

“Friends,” he said.

“It is my great privilege to welcome you here once more under the branches of this venerable Ancient One. Each year we come up this path, and each year He is here to receive our gifts and watch over us as we live out our short lives. He looks down upon us with the wisdom of age. He is our hayward and our sentinel, our shepherd and our mentor.

He was here when our ancestors first came up this hillside, and He will be here still, long after you and I have gone. He knows the way of the wind, and the thunder and the drought. He has seen the winters and the summers flicker like candles through a restless night, and watched the Goddess Moon draw her eternal arc across the heavens like we might watch an ember fly from this bonfire.

To him the the summer rains are as a fleeting mist and the mosses and the lichens crawl across the rocks like water flowing over the river’s bed.

Even so, one day, His time also will come and He will pass away from this place as must we all. He will be forgotten, as we will be forgotten, and his kith and his kin will die and rot down into the dark earth so that another generation may come.

And these things that we do here today will also be forgotten. Those that come after will have other needs and other concerns to fill their lives and we will be like ghosts in their memories.

But today we pray that the one thing they will not forget nor forego is the respect we should have for the Old Ones such as this tree. We pray that no matter how hard the ways of their lives become they will honour the Forest and its dwellers and protect its guardians. For to lose reverence for these things is to lose reverence for life itself.

Now I bid you pay your respect to our protector, and to the Spirit that watches over us. May your gifts be accepted with the love they betoken for the Forest and for us all.”

The Keeper took his Gift and turned to the Old Tree.

“Accept this measure of our affection Old One, and live well.”

He hung a simple polished wooden circle on a bowed branch, and stepped back. One by one the priests took their Gifts to the tree, all simple wooden ornaments in the manner of their Order.

When they had finished the people of the village formed a line and each in turn unwrapped their carefully hidden Gift and went with it to the Old Tree. There were exclamations of delight and surprise as the wonderful ornaments were hung on the branches. Amergin, the hunter, set a brilliant white deer carved from chalk among the leaves. Niul, the weaver, hung a delicate red wicker ball up high and Fidelma his wife, a holly wreath. Tulchinne brought a beautiful painted eggshell and Canna a cage of grey feathers from the birds of the sea. Emrys watched his father hang up a necklace of painted wooden daisies and his mother a wand of juniper and birch and bright red berries of mistletoe.

And then it was his turn and heart beating so fast he thought it might burst, he stepped forward and hung his Gift, lustrous black and red and iridescent on the tree, magnificent among all the others.

He went back to his family and, taking his mother’s hand, he turned to watch with wonder as the Ancient Old Tree became ablaze with colour and reflection and movement.

Surely, he thought, surely those who would come after us, even in those distant reaches of time, would never forget the true meaning of this festival and of these beautiful offerings.

And, in a while, after the fires had burnt to embers, he turned to go with his friends and his family and those wiser than himself, all these whom he loved, down the side of the mountain.