they have become unlucky. When things work out well for you, you will know you are following your pattern as you should.”
My mind had snagged on one of his words like a strand of wool snagged on a bramble- “What does ‘intuitively’ mean?”
Morgan Llywelyn
40
A fine webbing of wrinkles fanned outward from the comers of Menua’s eyes when he smiled. “Intuition is the voice of the spirit within you.”
“I’ve heard it already!” I cried, remembering the night something had told me to pile Crom DaraTs arms with rocks. “At least, I think I have. Once.”
‘ ‘You must hear it more often than that, Ainvar. You must listen to it every day.”
“Can I leam how?”
“Of course, that is one of the things I am to teach you. You will begin by listening to the songs of the earth. The natural world and the world of spirits are connected through the pattern, remember? But most people do not bother to listen to nature’s voices, just as they do not look for the pattern.”
I glanced at the treetops again and he chuckled. “Not with your outer eye, Ainvar. Use your inner eye.”
“My inner eye?”
‘ ‘One of the senses of your spirit.”
I considered this. “I don’t think I have any.”
“Of course you do, everyone does. We are all bom with them, they come with the spirit that animates the flesh. Little children use them every day. Think back to your early childhood, Ainvar. Were you not aware of many things adults did not hear and see? Remember. Remember.”
His voice reached inside me, summoning.
Memory flooded through me.
When I was only a knee-child, my head not yet reaching Rosmerta’s hip, I had known there were other presences in our lodge. Since I was aware of them I assumed everyone else was. Every shadow was intangibly occupied. The night beyond the door was peopled with potential. I knew without question and without doubt.
I was not afraid of the dark; I had so recently emerged from the darkness of being unborn. An elusive memory lingered like a promise at the edge of my awareness, calling to me. Even then. Luring me out into the darkness, making me curious.
How could I have forgotten the many times I ran eagerly into the night, trying to recapture a lost magic, while Rosmerta scuttled after me, clucking and scolding like an old hen.
“I remember,” I said softly.
“Good. Then we can train you.” Menua pushed up the sleeves of his robe, revealing still-muscular forearms covered with wiry
DRUIDS 41
silver hair. Bees were humming in the glade. Soil smelled hot, leaves smelled green.
“First you must leam to be still,” the chief druid told me. “Be truly still, so your body is like an empty sack, gaping open.
“Whether you know it or not, your spirit is only held in your flesh by an act of will. You must relax your will and allow your spirit to move as freely as mist among the trees. Otherwise
your spirit, which is the essential and immortal You, might someday find itself trapped in a decaying body it must accompany into the tomb.”
The image of my spirit being imprisoned in my dead body was so horrific I determined to learn to free it no matter how hard I must work. I practiced being still, which was difficult, and letting my soul float, which seemed impossible. I felt as if I were sealed in a stoppered jar.
“Don’t squirm when you’re supposed to be concentrating,” Menua scolded me. “You are listening too much to the demands of your joints and muscles. Your body is not in charge, Ainvar. You are.”
I redoubled my efforts. The summer we had courted and won came to us sweetly and lingered long, and in time I learned to stop thinking of my body as myself. It was merely an outpost of me, a companion, a home in which I lived for a time. I grew easy in my skin.
Then one morning I heard a lark’sing; really heard a lark sing. As I listened spellbound, the piercingly pure cataract of musical sounds became echoes of a greater glory I experienced with a
My mind had snagged on one of his words like a strand of wool snagged on a bramble- “What does ‘intuitively’ mean?”
Morgan Llywelyn
40
A fine webbing of wrinkles fanned outward from the comers of Menua’s eyes when he smiled. “Intuition is the voice of the spirit within you.”
“I’ve heard it already!” I cried, remembering the night something had told me to pile Crom DaraTs arms with rocks. “At least, I think I have. Once.”
‘ ‘You must hear it more often than that, Ainvar. You must listen to it every day.”
“Can I leam how?”
“Of course, that is one of the things I am to teach you. You will begin by listening to the songs of the earth. The natural world and the world of spirits are connected through the pattern, remember? But most people do not bother to listen to nature’s voices, just as they do not look for the pattern.”
I glanced at the treetops again and he chuckled. “Not with your outer eye, Ainvar. Use your inner eye.”
“My inner eye?”
‘ ‘One of the senses of your spirit.”
I considered this. “I don’t think I have any.”
“Of course you do, everyone does. We are all bom with them, they come with the spirit that animates the flesh. Little children use them every day. Think back to your early childhood, Ainvar. Were you not aware of many things adults did not hear and see? Remember. Remember.”
His voice reached inside me, summoning.
Memory flooded through me.
When I was only a knee-child, my head not yet reaching Rosmerta’s hip, I had known there were other presences in our lodge. Since I was aware of them I assumed everyone else was. Every shadow was intangibly occupied. The night beyond the door was peopled with potential. I knew without question and without doubt.
I was not afraid of the dark; I had so recently emerged from the darkness of being unborn. An elusive memory lingered like a promise at the edge of my awareness, calling to me. Even then. Luring me out into the darkness, making me curious.
How could I have forgotten the many times I ran eagerly into the night, trying to recapture a lost magic, while Rosmerta scuttled after me, clucking and scolding like an old hen.
“I remember,” I said softly.
“Good. Then we can train you.” Menua pushed up the sleeves of his robe, revealing still-muscular forearms covered with wiry
DRUIDS 41
silver hair. Bees were humming in the glade. Soil smelled hot, leaves smelled green.
“First you must leam to be still,” the chief druid told me. “Be truly still, so your body is like an empty sack, gaping open.
“Whether you know it or not, your spirit is only held in your flesh by an act of will. You must relax your will and allow your spirit to move as freely as mist among the trees. Otherwise
your spirit, which is the essential and immortal You, might someday find itself trapped in a decaying body it must accompany into the tomb.”
The image of my spirit being imprisoned in my dead body was so horrific I determined to learn to free it no matter how hard I must work. I practiced being still, which was difficult, and letting my soul float, which seemed impossible. I felt as if I were sealed in a stoppered jar.
“Don’t squirm when you’re supposed to be concentrating,” Menua scolded me. “You are listening too much to the demands of your joints and muscles. Your body is not in charge, Ainvar. You are.”
I redoubled my efforts. The summer we had courted and won came to us sweetly and lingered long, and in time I learned to stop thinking of my body as myself. It was merely an outpost of me, a companion, a home in which I lived for a time. I grew easy in my skin.
Then one morning I heard a lark’sing; really heard a lark sing. As I listened spellbound, the piercingly pure cataract of musical sounds became echoes of a greater glory I experienced with a
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