Twig of Thorn

by Eliza Fegley

She stared across the land dotted by small bonfires on the Eve of November. None of them remembered the old ways or why they burnt their fires. But she knew. She was the daughter of her mother, a priestess of the old ways. That was so long ago, many lifetimes ago. She knew, she remembered, what those fires meant.

Here I gather a twig of thorn
And bleed my fingers upon its horns.
Now I light the sacrificial fires
To appease the spirits of darkened desires.

She clenched the twig of thorn within her left hand. Droplets of blood fell to the dry ground and sparkled like black rubies in the moonlight. She chose the bonfire nearest her and began to walk in its direction. Quietly. She hoped not to be heard by the spirits of the departed that walked the night, this night, the night of Samhain.

It was on a night just as this one that her mother took her to the grassy mound and left her in the care of the Old Ones. Another religion was invading these parts, bringing ruin to the ancient clans and destroying the sacred relics of those now forgotten. The invaders were murderous and they lied with a tongue that they claimed was blessed by their one god. What lies they told! What filth they spread across our once fair and peaceful land.

She, Bridget from the Land of Youth, has returned. Many years, centuries, have passed since that night, that Samhain night. The invaders now ruled and the people have forgotten the Old Ways. And yet they still lit fires upon this night, not to appease the Old Ones, but to scare them away.

A sickened smile spread across her lips. How could they have given up so easily? She gripped her twig of thorn tighter in her hand and new droplets of blood fell to the ground. This time, the earth swallowed them.

And from this twig of thorn
The trespassers shall be warned.
The Old Ones have awoken
And are waiting for the words of power
to be spoken.

She drew closer to the bonfire and the people standing around it. She could hear their voices and see their faces more clearly. There was a priest among them, a priest of the invaders. Bridget swallowed her rising anger and looked away from him. She walked this land once more, on a task for the Ancient Ones, the Good People. There would be another time for confronting his kind.

And those who stole this land from Ours
Shall count the minutes and the hours
To the end of their hateful reign
When Tuatha De Danann rules once again.

Bridget now stood at the edge of the bonfire. It’s hot breath was upon her face, drying her lips and eyes. She gripped the twig of thorn one last time and then threw the blood stained stick into the fire.

The twig of thorn has been consumed,
And the mountain has opened it’s gate.
The Old Ways are about to begin renewed,
Leaving the deceivers to Death’s fate.

The priest stared at her from across the fire. First he looked to her face, then to the small glass ball worn about her neck, and finally at her blood stained hand. His eyes widened with sudden terror and he opened his mouth.

Not a sound exited from his gaping jaw. He was too late. She had opened the gate of the mountain and released the powers of the Old Ones. And he, the priest, was no more than a standing stone, unnoticed to those who stood staring, as if mesmerized, into the roaring fire.

A shiver was felt across the land.
The earth was in the grip of Death’s hand.
And those who lived to see the sun’s rebirth
Would continue to live on Pagan earth.

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