Wild Night

By Diotima

The dancing reached its height, the dancers whirling in time to the rhythms produced by the battery drive no box at their feet. The table behind them – carried from their cars earlier in the evening – is spread with wine, cakes, ale, shop bought delicacies of every kind. The prepared ritual is almost over, and it seems that she, alone, again, is the only one not to be moved by the event. It seems to her to be missing something, in spite of all her work and experimentation...

She'd moved the meetings here, amidst many protests from members of the group: they'd been happy meeting in people's homes, where it was warm, where there were no sticks underfoot and where (she surmised but did not voice) they couldn't be seen; no one could come across them by accident in Muriel's front room, after all.

But she’d persuaded and discussed, and after a few false starts (fields which housed cows by day are not good places for rituals by night – that had been a clear case of one trial learning even for the groups of city bred people that they were) everyone agreed it was better to meet outside by moonlight.

She'd introduced the use of incense in rituals ("to heighten the sensual experience") and done her best to insist that rituals were written by a different member of the group each time, ("We're Pagans, not cub scouts, and I am not Arkela!" she’d said during one exasperated encounter).

Although younger than many in the group, she'd emerged naturally into some version of leadership. No matter how much she insisted on the value of democracy and shared decision making, she secretly was both pleased that they fell in with her suggestions (after all, everyone enjoys having people agree with them) and dismayed (because, in the end, she felt it was too easy, both for her and for them).

Whatever her misgivings, however, she was pleased at the way the evening had gone. They'd had a good turn out, the ritual had gone according to plan, and people seemed very moved by it. Everyone, that is, except herself.

As the ritual ended, people wandered in twos and threes toward the laden table. The happiness (and near exhaustion) on their faces was suddenly too much for her: it seemed false, hollow, too easily achieved and therefore of little value. Smiling vaguely at Anna and nodding toward the trees, she wordlessly excused herself and turned her back on the fire and the banter.

Once out of sight of the others, she ran her fingers through her hair in distraction and kicked at the ground. She still couldn't say what was wrong, but she was entirely dissatisfied. Giving into an impulse from childhood, she began to run through the trees. As a girl, she had hoped to outrun her problems; as an adult, she merely craved the movement and the speed.

Her initial burst of energy spent, she slackened her pace to a gentle jog. As her heart slowed and was no longer pounding in her ears, she became aware of other sounds around here: night-time animals and birds, the crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot and... something else, a long way off.

Intrigued, she rested against the bole of a tree and concentrated on the sound. It was rhythmic (much more so than the music Alan had chosen for the ritual dance!) and a long way off.

But it was getting closer...

Straining her ears and mind, she incredulously identified the sound as horses at full gallop. At night? (she suddenly realised how far into the woods she'd run, and how very dark it was, even with the full moon). Here? Surely horses being galloped like that needed a clear space? What, in fact, were horses doing here, now, at all?

Thought and action came together as one; she began to run again, this time, in earnest – not out of frustration but from fear. She knew she had no real hope of outrunning horses, but she was driven by the need to evade them for as long as possible. The ritual, the group, her dissatisfaction, were all forgotten in her headlong rush among the trees – away from the oncoming riders.

Darting among the bushes, she knew the horses were coming closer; the sound was louder with every heart beat – with every hoof beat. (It didn't occur to her that the horses might not be pursuing her – the necessity to get away from them made such speculations unnecessary).

Risking a look back, she was the lead horseman; he was close enough that she could pick him out among the trees!

Hoping to evade him, she ducked under an old oak, entering a thicker stand of trees. The rider followed close on her heels now, leaning down almost level with the horse’s neck to avoid the branches – nearer, ever nearer.

Already bowed over his mount, the rider reached out – and matching his speed to hers, threw an arm round her waist and pulled to up to the horse in front of him. Writhing, kicking and biting seemed of no use to her – she was held fast over the neck of the beast by arms and wrists seemingly made of iron.

Continue to page 2 >>>