Dance of the Stones by Andrea Spalding Page B

completed the sacred Walk of Seven along the Avenue from the Sanctuary. They stepped through the Shaman’s Entrance into the Great Circle.
    Hewll gasped. The chief shaman’s upper face was concealed by a golden half-mask resembling a hawk’s eyes and beak. A woven helmet threaded with dancing, fluttering hawk feathers completed the illusion. Her eyes glittered behind the holes. A gleaming gold-handled sickle was tucked into her belt and a gilded horn was slung on a cord over her shoulder. Behind her walked an apprentice bearing a mistletoe bough.
    The second shaman followed wearing a deer-like leather half-mask and a massive crown of intertwined deer antlers. He carried a small clay pot. Two men and two women followed chanting, “Fare to the Stones. Fare to the Circle.”
    â€œPeace is within. Leave behind evil,” Hewll and the tribes’ people answered.
    The chief shaman stood beside the pit and drew forth her sickle. “Blessed be the sacred mistletoe,” she intoned, “whose roots need no earth and drink no water, whose dried remains are used to light the sacred fire and whose juices protect us from dark spirits.”
    â€œBlessed be the mistletoe,” replied the tribes’ people.
    Gold flashed as the chief shaman severed the mistletoe ball from the bough and cast it into the pit.
    The second shaman entered the smaller of the inner circles. Pulling two flints from his pocket he shouted, “Behold, the fire stones! Spitters of flame, lighters of darkness, givers of warmth, shield against our enemies.”
    â€œBlessed be the fire stones,” the tribes’ people cried.
    Hewll held his breath as the second shaman smashed the stones together.
    A spark flashed and a tiny ember smoldered. The shaman blew. A flame greedily licked dried flakes of mistletoe and began to consume them.
    â€œThe fire, the fire, blessed be the sacred fire,” roared Hewll and the tribes’ people.
    Soon a great bonfire roared.
    The chief shaman lifted the horn from her shoulder and blew. “Behold, the last Sarsen Stone,” she called in a high clear voice.
    THUD! A log dropped across the Moon Entrance. Men grasping braided ropes leaped over the log, straining and pulling to keep the tension on the lines. The gray end of the Sarsen edged slowly into the Circle.
    Hewll crossed his fingers and spat, making the ancient charm for luck, as inch by inch the stone moved forward.
    The Rollers and Pullers worked in teams, carrying logs from behind to be laid once more before the stone. The logs rolled on the ground and eased the stone forward. Men took over from men, keeping the massive ropes taut and another log ready. The slow steady momentum must not stop. Those at the front grunted, strained and pulled. Those at the back pushed and coaxed with heavy wooden levers.
    The onlookers cheered them on.
    The stone edged across the Circle toward the hole.
    The fire blazed in celebration.
    â€œAll that remains now is the perfect drop,” whispered Hewll to his neighbor.
    The Sarsen teetered over the pit, then shook the ground as it fell on the icy ramp and plunged down to bury its end perfectly in the center, crushing the mistletoe.
    Hewll yelled with delight. He turned to the Pit Makers and they slapped each other on the back.
    The dance changed.
    Ropes were harnessed to the top of the stone. The Pit Makers, Rollers and Pullers joined forces to gather up the logs and thrust and brace them beneath the angle of the stone. Hewll threw himself into the work using a large wooden lever.
    Inch by inch the stone moved upright.
    The sun began its descent.
    Women brought more fuel. Soon the fire blazed brighter than the setting sun.
    Shadows lengthened and still the people toiled.
    At last the shaman’s horn blew.
    The stone stood.
    *   *   *
    Once more an uneasy feeling distracted Owen. He drew back into his hawk body and looked again at the stone beside him. The mist at its