Imbolc - St. Brigid - And the Imbolc scene from The Malice of Fairies

Firstly

A little bit of background, before we get to the juicy bits... and they are rather juicy on this occasion.  I have used Imbolc as an excuse to all my clan of sith (who are, of course, descendants of the Tuatha de Danaan) travel to visit another clan, and this gives them an opportunity for a bit of fun, sexual diplomacy and discovery,  Skip to the bottom of the page if you like!

February 1st is St. Brigid's Day, it's also Imbolc, the pagan festival which is one of the four major mid-season days of the year.  While the Christian/medieval financial year was divided into 4 quarter days when people were paid (this continued into 19thC see Dickens, passim.) which were Christmas Day, 25th March (the Annunciation), 24/5th June (St John's Day, old Midsummer Day) and 29th September (St. Michael and All Angels), the 4 major pagan festivals (Imbolc, Beltane, Lughnasa and Samhain) fall on the midpoints between the Christian festivals - roughly, blame the transition from Julian to Gregorian calendar when in doubt.  These all mark points in the year when the season changes and Imbolc opens the season when the light really begins to come back and proper farming gets under way again.  Of course in the UK it isn't really spring, there's usually plenty of winter weather in February.  However...

I used Imbolc as an important festival in The Malice of Fairies... it is a peculiar day, St. Bridgid was a real person, a 6thC abbess, but there was also a goddess, one of the Tuatha de Danaan who was called Brid/Brigid (many variations and Irish spellings), so some people claim St. Brigid is just a syncretisation of a pagan deity, but there are in fact 12 contemporary  references to the Abbes Brigid in Kildare.  When I was a child I was taken to visit Faughart, near Dundulk, which is described in this blog post http://irelandsholywells.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/saint-brigids-shrine-and-well-faughart.html


 I remember the more modern, Catholic bits of the site, like the oratory, the Lourdes type scenes and the rows of statues. Places like this on the left, but there are more ancient bits too.

Brigid is intimately bound up with her pagan predecessor, who was patron of the spring (apparently) as well as being a veritable Celtic Athena and responsible for all manner of arts and crafts.  It made sense to give Brigid February 1st as her feast day, since Brid had been worshipped then too.   They weren't stupid the early church bureaucrats,   Both Christian and pre-Christian elements seem to be involved in the rituals and customs  which surround St. Brigid's day, These are described here : https://www.facebook.com/Medieval.Ireland/photos/a.194168750626927.44161.176930512350751/1043693535674440/?type=3&fref=nf

Imbolc is also, give a day, Candlemas - the festival of light, so this is always a good time of year for me, and just before my birthday too!

The Malice of Fairies   Chapter 16 - extract

“Farmers!”  Gawen spat. 

They had ploughed over the hills, cut down the sacred thorns, and taken no mind to the people’s protests.   The English were gone now, but the farmers had learned bad ways from them.  And gradually, with no humans to provide for them, his kind had had to extend their activities and now, even he, a warrior, one destined to bring glory to his clan, had to concern himself with stock keeping and the soil.  He should be fighting, defending his clan, not mumbling like an old man over the numbers of the cattle.  He had even wondered whether one of those computers the mortals had might not be a good idea for this demeaning work.  By Holy Brid! That must never come upon them!

“That was grand sport we had last night with that old farmer!” called Tadgh of the 9 Hares, one of his  younger companions.  Gawen smiled happily at the memory.

“Aye – it was like the old days – I haven’t had such sport for an age.”

“He was completely covered with mud!”

“He got out of the bog all right, though.”

“And the cream of it is, he’ll never be able to tell a soul – no one will believe him!”

“That’s about the size of it”  Gawen grinned as he remembered the way they’d pushed and poked the man across his own water meadow and into the boggy end of it where it went down to the river below Casleanshee. 

“Still – he’d no business being there at that time of night – he should have been at home!”

“He’d drunk so much he fell asleep in his tractor!”

“The ould sot!”

“Did he see you at all?”

“We gave him the odd glimpse, enough to confuse him beyond reason.  He’ll never know what he saw.”

 “There are still those that can see us without any help.”

“Well – he wasn’t one of those!”

“That judy of Connor’s – she can see him without help!” Gawen said bitterly.   “I wonder why she has the sight?  I think it’s one of her charms for him.”

“Have you ever had a mortal woman yourself?” Tadgh asked.

“No” Gawen replied shortly “I’ve never felt the need.  Our own kind are sufficient.”

Tadgh looked under his lashes at his leader.  He wondered if the rumours were true – that the great warrior had never quite relinquished his desire for men’s bodies?  It was a cruel law that dictated the love between men was ignited between youths, but they were then to conform and be satisfied by women as they reached manhood.  He had reached manhood himself 20 years ago, and yet he still felt tormented by longings for those sportive couplings with other youths.  Of course, he could not love a youth now, but would it not be possible with an equal?  He looked at Gawen again, surreptitiously.  He had the body of a perfect warrior, there wasn’t a line on his skin, or a muscle that wasn’t as firm as a rock.  The women surrounded him at all the feasts and dances, yet he clearly preferred the company of men.  How much, though, did he prefer it?  Tadgh knew Gawen took pleasure with Maeb from time to time, but was it possible that he too might secretly long for the pleasures he had tasted as a youth? How would he respond if Tadgh ever tried to engage him in that amorous play that he longed for?  It made him shiver with desire to think of it.  How would he ever suggest it?  How would he go to it?  He could not start as with a maiden, the arm casually around the shoulder and there was no chance for the furtive caress in the close press of the dance.  Gawen was his leader, his chosen lord, he would serve him or service him according to his needs – if only he would speak of those needs.   Their horses were so close, they were riding slowly, thigh to thigh almost...

Gawen’s hand was on his thigh, squeezing it briefly

“Come Tadgh – we dawdle – we should be ahead of the people, not at the back. Onwards!” and he kicked his horse into a canter, leaving Tadgh behind, electrified with desire from that touch – and convinced that it wasn’t quite casual.

The great hall of the Tuatha na ghleann was dark the next morning. Both clans were there together, huddled in their cloaks – for no fires had yet been lit.  They had arisen early to greet the day – the hall doors were wide open and they were all looking out to see the break of day. There was an uneven strip of lighter sky above the eastern hills as the dawn began to break.  Soon the strip of grey grew and lightened where it touched the hills.  Elsie watched for a few minutes, and saw how the low, flat hill was beginning to shine, and then a tiny incandescent crescent appeared beyond the hill and as the sun rose slowly, the clouds seem to roll away before its progress, the sky beyond gleamed with a pale colour that to Elsie seemed to be primrose, pale blue and pink all at once.  There was a sigh of happiness from the assembled company and whispers of “Praise be!” here and there.

 “A perfect day – Bridget be praised!” Maeb said. “Her greetings to you Elsie!” she said leaning over and kissing her fosterling on both cheeks before going to kiss all the children, starting with her own.  Everywhere the adults were giving each other friendly kisses and greetings.  There was a respectful silence when the two chieftains gravely faced each other. Florence, as was proper opened wide his arms to Aurelia, his guest and they embraced in full view of their clans.  It was obvious that this embrace was a little more intimate than was usual on these occasions.  More than one person had seen Aurelia leaving Florence’s solar an hour or so before dawn, to be prepared for the festival.  The symbolism of the sexual union between the clans largely escaped Elsie – but there was a round of applause from some of the company, acknowledging the renewed bond of friendship between them.  Aurelia had made sure that everyone was aware that it was she who had wooed Florence, and there could be no question that he had exerted masculine will over her.  Florence, one or two of his court noticed, looked uncharacteristically tired, but he nevertheless presented a joyous demeanour to the company.   While all eyes were fixed on the chieftains, Tadgh and Gawen found themselves in close proximity at the back of the crowd.  As they exchanged a formal Brid’s Day embrace, Tadgh let his hand casually brush Gawen’s chest.  Gawen grasped his wrist and looked deeply into his eyes.  Tadgh saw joy and anger there.

“Do not toy with me Tadgh!  That was no idle touch!”

Tadgh was terrified, yet thrilled by Gawen’s firm hold on him, he was so bewildered he did not know what to say.  This could be a dream or a nightmare.  His heart beat in his ears seemed to deafen him, the sun seemed to hesitate in its progress, but this could be his only chance to speak.

“True lord, I touched you with intent, I crave your pardon if it was not to your liking.”

“It was truly to my liking.” Gawen laid his other hand firmly on Tadgh’s chest and for one glorious moment Tadgh thought he was going to kiss him. Gawen moved back abruptly and all bodily contact was lost, yet as the crowd moved away from viewing the sunrise they held each other’s gaze for a few seconds as the gathering broke up around them.

We can't go on like this!

I speak of the immense lassitude that has surrounded me for the last fortnight.  Admittedly I have been ill, and adjusting to different conditions (having a student to teach and going to Relate), but the lack of productivity is very unimpressive.

What I intended to do was get on with re-writing The Ash Grove, sorely neglected for some time, after a promising start to the re-write.  Instead I have done a bit of extra editing on TMoF, this is partly because a friend has asked to read it in installments and I started "just checking" that there were no terrible betises, and as a result have been doing a lot of editing.  But I only have about 6 pages to go, so that need not detain me.  I then await G's verdict on it, which may mean more re-jigging - pushing TAG away into February/March...Part of me is itching to get going with the next project, but I think I'll let it wait a bit longer, I need to re-read the original book at least once before I try anything.   I still haven't thought of a job for my main character, since her 19thC job doesn't seem to have a modern equivalent... a sort of specialised embroidered but can't think if that would be valid in 1950s London?    More thought (and work) required.

A Quiet Time

Due to a high level of expectation about what one does at Christmas, December isn't usually a good month for writing.  In theory I spring into life on the first working day of January, and it goes off.

This year, for some reason it hasn't happened.  I spent the first week putting together the Ramsgate Montefiore Heritage Newsletter (Kate Hamlyn - Editor) and though that only took a day, there was a bit of foot dragging and fiddling about which somehow prevented me doing anything else.   I also did some "housekeeping" which included submitting TMoF to my Irish editor friend for a professional opinion and any thoughts about the market for it.  So, the plan was to start the Ash Grove re-write this week, only two things happened.  An on-going row with the husboid led to me cutting a deal, I would do his edits to the first two chapters of his book, if he would start the decorating work on the upper stairs and landing.  Then I began to have tremendous pains in my right foot, and so was unable to do anything, least of all, reclaim the small upstairs room as my office, which involves lugging boxes and stuff up and down.  So, I'm still here, in the bedroom, with a bad foot, NOT editing TAG and slowly doing Claudius' Elephants  for M, and attending meetings with him.

Meanwhile, the odd rejection (not rave) dribbles in.  An agent who sent me exactly the same rejection letter for the last novel...nothing from the US.  All very quiet.   However, there are a couple of things to apply for - the Escalator competition... and Gollancz fantasy open submission.  Must do that!   Some feedback from a friend, who thinks it's slowed down since the beginning - perhaps... but wonders what genre it is?  A romance I suppose?  She suggested making it more thrillerish... I dunno, aren't fairies enough of a shock?

I am not feeling at my cheeriest and most encouraged - all I can think of is "the darkest hour is before dawn" - so perhaps there will be news!

A good idea

Perhaps to distract myself from the current situation, I have discovered something new I want to write.  This would be an updated 1950s version of a French novel which is lively and dynamic and has a main character who has something like narcissistic personality disorder... all the humour is already there, but I think updating it to the 50s London will work brilliantly... I hope.  It's giving me something to look forward to.  There is a fashion for updates of famous Brit novels, or extension and "sequels" so that loved characters get a life, but in this case the book is not well known in UK, and not so much in France nowadays, so that may not help.

Here is a picture of the Stoa of Herodes Atallus at Athens - now connection with any of the above, I simply chose it at random, blind, from my folder.