frozen in the vast freezer houses – powered by the wind-turbines – that stored so much of Stonewylde’s produce.
He liked this phase of the Wheel of the Year, with the old year drawing to a close at Samhain. Even the frugal Clip appreciated the security of knowing all the produce and foods were now safely harvested and stored for the winter months ahead. He knew this was a very busy time for everyone. The tanners were working flat out to cope with the influx of animal skins waiting to be processed into leather. The flax, harvested in the summer and put to one side after retting, was now being dyed and woven on the hand looms that graced almost every cottage. Wool sheared in the late spring had been cleaned and dyed, and then either put aside for felting or to be spun into yarn. Every evening the click of wooden knitting needles could be heard throughout the Village and the Hall as new garments were made.
Diligence was still a virtue at Stonewylde and self-sufficiency from the Outside World still held sway. The people took pride in feeding and clothing themselves well and, despite the many changes since Magus’ demise, consumerism had not taken a hold and traditional values had been maintained. The biggest difference was that the Hallfolk no longer lived off the backs of the Villagers; all had an equal share in the work and in the bounty of the community, and Clip’s sense of moral justice was delighted at this. In the old days he’d often felt rather uncomfortable about the polarity of Stonewylde’s society.
Clip descended carefully down the other stone stairway that helter-skeltered around the outside of the tower, the ancient steps worn and shiny. He slipped away from the Hall, nestling like a great golden creature amongst the trees and lawns, and made his way up into the hills behind it. The sun felt good on his face and he forgot the earlier slash of pain that had so taken him by surprise. Long legs stretching, he quickly covered the distance and began to climb. After a while, with no thought to where he was heading, Clip found himself walking along the path that led to the Hare Stone.
He came here every so often, for since the Winter Solstice Eve thirteen years ago it had become a magical place for him. He’d seen his daughter moon-dance here for the first time, in her scarlet cloak within a ring of Woodsmen guarding her from danger. Here she’d honoured the rising of the Frost Moon whilst Magus had fought the final battle with his son up at Quarrycleave. Clip had never forgotten the thrill of seeing Sylvie stretch her moon-wings, stand on tiptoe and launch herself into the spiral dance, singing her ethereal song that had no words, with the silver moon reflected in her strange eyes. The sight of the hares leaping around her, the barn owl swooping low, and her hair swirling in a silver halo was something he’d carry to his grave.
Now Clip wandered up the hill past the outcrops of rocks and boulders that lay strewn below the summit and remembered the other event of that night, when Sylvie had sensed danger on the hill. He recalled the terror he’d felt as the three women had risen up from nowhere in a flurry of darkness and wickedness, and petrified him where he stood. The sight of Starling and Vetchling crushing his daughter whilst Violet capered about with a knife ready to cut her had been dreadful, and even today Clip felt uneasy about what had taken place there. The three hags had kept their heads down over the years, but Swift’s remarks today had shaken Clip. Why was Violet acknowledging Martin’s paternity after all this time?
Clip reached the great standing stone at the top of the hill and leant back against the rock, feeling the peculiar comfort that such sacred stones bring. He was alive to the energy of the place, receiving it and yet not diminishing it. As he stood gazing across at the sea in the distance, mist began to swirl in from the fields below. It came slowly at first, soft tendrils
He liked this phase of the Wheel of the Year, with the old year drawing to a close at Samhain. Even the frugal Clip appreciated the security of knowing all the produce and foods were now safely harvested and stored for the winter months ahead. He knew this was a very busy time for everyone. The tanners were working flat out to cope with the influx of animal skins waiting to be processed into leather. The flax, harvested in the summer and put to one side after retting, was now being dyed and woven on the hand looms that graced almost every cottage. Wool sheared in the late spring had been cleaned and dyed, and then either put aside for felting or to be spun into yarn. Every evening the click of wooden knitting needles could be heard throughout the Village and the Hall as new garments were made.
Diligence was still a virtue at Stonewylde and self-sufficiency from the Outside World still held sway. The people took pride in feeding and clothing themselves well and, despite the many changes since Magus’ demise, consumerism had not taken a hold and traditional values had been maintained. The biggest difference was that the Hallfolk no longer lived off the backs of the Villagers; all had an equal share in the work and in the bounty of the community, and Clip’s sense of moral justice was delighted at this. In the old days he’d often felt rather uncomfortable about the polarity of Stonewylde’s society.
Clip descended carefully down the other stone stairway that helter-skeltered around the outside of the tower, the ancient steps worn and shiny. He slipped away from the Hall, nestling like a great golden creature amongst the trees and lawns, and made his way up into the hills behind it. The sun felt good on his face and he forgot the earlier slash of pain that had so taken him by surprise. Long legs stretching, he quickly covered the distance and began to climb. After a while, with no thought to where he was heading, Clip found himself walking along the path that led to the Hare Stone.
He came here every so often, for since the Winter Solstice Eve thirteen years ago it had become a magical place for him. He’d seen his daughter moon-dance here for the first time, in her scarlet cloak within a ring of Woodsmen guarding her from danger. Here she’d honoured the rising of the Frost Moon whilst Magus had fought the final battle with his son up at Quarrycleave. Clip had never forgotten the thrill of seeing Sylvie stretch her moon-wings, stand on tiptoe and launch herself into the spiral dance, singing her ethereal song that had no words, with the silver moon reflected in her strange eyes. The sight of the hares leaping around her, the barn owl swooping low, and her hair swirling in a silver halo was something he’d carry to his grave.
Now Clip wandered up the hill past the outcrops of rocks and boulders that lay strewn below the summit and remembered the other event of that night, when Sylvie had sensed danger on the hill. He recalled the terror he’d felt as the three women had risen up from nowhere in a flurry of darkness and wickedness, and petrified him where he stood. The sight of Starling and Vetchling crushing his daughter whilst Violet capered about with a knife ready to cut her had been dreadful, and even today Clip felt uneasy about what had taken place there. The three hags had kept their heads down over the years, but Swift’s remarks today had shaken Clip. Why was Violet acknowledging Martin’s paternity after all this time?
Clip reached the great standing stone at the top of the hill and leant back against the rock, feeling the peculiar comfort that such sacred stones bring. He was alive to the energy of the place, receiving it and yet not diminishing it. As he stood gazing across at the sea in the distance, mist began to swirl in from the fields below. It came slowly at first, soft tendrils
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