Imbolc story 
by Foxglove & Blayze

Close your eyes and I will tell you a tale.  A tale based in truth, yet hidden in shadow.  It is the dark of winter.  A large henge, a  great Circle built of ancient stones, stands upon a flat plain.  The sky is dark and dreary with just a glimmer of a cloud-cloaked Crone moon shining down upon the land. In the distance a shadowy image of a forest can be seen and the air carries the faint whisper of owls, seeking their prey.

It is cold, there is an icy chill in the air, a chill that can penetrate the bone.  The clouds drift in the sky and as the moon becomes clear for a moment, a woman is glimpsed standing in the centre of the circle of stones, a Hag, black cloaked and hook nosed.  She look quite decrepit.  But she is only decrepid in body, not in voice, as she sings a song that is soft and sweet in counterpoint to the call of the owls. The melody carries on the wind, muted at first but growing in strength and power with each repetition. Gradually the words echo around the henge and the plain, reaching even the forest beyond.

“turn again, turn again, the time has come to turn again”  over and over she sings these words.  What it is that she means….. What must turn again?  She smiles as she sings.... her black eyes shining with amusement by the light of the moon.

“turn again, turn again, the time has come to turn again”  she sings. She walks to the edge of the henge, leaning upon a Blackthorn staff that was hidden amongst the folds of her cloak, the staff is carved with shadowy pictures and is entwined with images of ivy and holly. She walks around the edge of the henge purposefully, planting her blackthorn staff in the ground with each step. When she has completed her turn about the henge she moves back to the centre. Her eyes are glowing brighter now, like polished stones of midnight black, drawing in and reflecting the moon to illuminate the skies above.

“turn again, turn again, the time has come to turn again”  she sings.  The land begins to buckle in the centre of the henge, something has been awoken by the magic of the hag. Soil crumbles at her feet and a jagged pillar of rock breaks the surface of the soil, emerging wet and glistening from the earth. The hag stands her ground, leaning on her staff. The leaves of ivy and holly appear to move in ever dancing spirals about the wood. The pillar of rock now stands about 4 feet high. The earth appears to sigh as its birth pangs end.  Black and fertile soil is heaped around the base, small insects and worms now writhing in the open air. On top of the Rock there is a small crevice with water gently pouring forth, trickling down the sides. Tears of joy and sadness, blood of the earth.

The hag stops singing and speaks to earth and sky... “the tides are changing; I am weary of being old.  Like the Phoenix rising from its own ashes I will be reborn”.  She then cups her hands to catch the water and she holds it to her lips and drinks just a few drops.

With her lips still glistening with the sacred water, she falls to the ground. As she falls she plants her staff deep into the newly turned earth. She hangs on to the staff, her only support as spasms wrack her body.

The hood of her cloak falls back and her long iron gray hair lightens to pale gold. Her eyes shade from deepest black to brightest emerald green. The black cloak seems to transform and take on the images and entwined leaves that once covered the staff, ivy leaves and holly leaves are joined by buds of birch and hazel. The cloak becomes a riot of green vines. It soaks up the moonlight to become pale silver with a subtle hint of the feathers of a white swan amongst the silver and green.  

Wrinkles are smoothed from her face and hands, her breasts become high and full as her back arches from the power now flowing through her, transforming her as she is destined to transform the land.

The staff begins to sprout branches and leaves, as the sweet scent of blackthorn fills the air. She straightens up and begins to stand... a lovely maiden, no longer hag and crone, stands before the tree and glistening stone.

She stands strong and proud in the centre of the henge. She gathers the powers to her and raises her hands to the sky. The stones of the henge begin to dance, raising slightly out of the soil of the plain to hang just above the ground. With a gesture she makes the stones spin on their own axes as they begin to move sunwise around her. The stones begin to glow from gray to silver and then to gold. They are no longer stones of the earth, but living flames... fires from the forge of the earth, spiralling amongst the sky.

She gestures again and the flames decrease in size, but not in power. She pulls them closer to her. The flames changing from inferno to the dancing glow of candles flickering in the night.  The flames come ever closer to her as she herself begins to spin. The flames  move with her, forming a crown above her head. Illuminating her golden hair. 

She spins about the henge, leaping over the holes that once held the great stones. Spinning and leaping, her green eyes glowing with joy.

Gradually she begins to slow in her dance, the flames a crown encircling her brow. She slowly spirals to the centre coming to rest beside the tree and pillar of rock. 

The water trickling from the pillar has taken on a golden glow. She looks to the east and sees the first rays of dawn. Her work is done and spring is at hand. She settles down to sit between tree and rock, her cloak billowing around her to cover the newly awakened land.

The moon sinks below the line of the forest and the new day dawns with the hint of flowers carried on the wind. “Turn again, turn again, time has turned again”.