The Crone and the Stag

The smell of smoke was thick through the air. The bonfire burned brightly at the mouth of the cave, the shadows cast from the flames joining those of the humans around the fire. The humans moved in a clockwise circle, some twirling in their own ritual of dance with heads thrown back in bliss. Fabrics and materials whirled in the air with the movement of the dancers. A dancer shrouded in a white sheet and holding the skull of a horse jingled past the mouth of the cave.

    "They don't dance quite like they used to."

    The Crone turned her head toward the voice. She had been alone in her quiet observance at the top of the knoll, but a man now stood to her right.

    "No," she replied. "Not quite."

    The Crone's new companion fiddled with the cufflinks of his suit. The material of his emerald jacket shimmered in the light from the fire, the brown patterns of the faces of animals and the leaves of the greenest tree shifting. The Crone watched as a herd of deer ran across the left sleeve and the tree on his left breast shed and grew its leaves.

    Perhaps most magnificent of her companion's attributes were the polished ivory horns that projected from his head. The five prongs on each side were adorned in the silver strings of spiders' webs and the gold sheaves of wheat. Each point was dipped in silver and gleamed in the firelight.

    "I appreciate their addition of clothes to the ritual," The Stag continued. "The naked revelers were a bit much for my taste."

    The Crone nodded, though she found that she couldn't quite agree with her companion. "There was a sort of beauty to their vulnerability."

    The Stag stroked his russet beard and his eyes glimmered with humor. "Is that my friend or the shift speaking?"

    The Crone grinned. "A little of both I suppose."

    The time when the winds began to blow cold and the humans began to lead cattle back from summer pastures and harvest their crops was also the time of rebirth for the God and Goddess. The Goddess' summer blonde hair would bleach to a silvery white, the roundness of her cheeks sagging and her skin wrinkling. She traded her gown of oak leaves and daisies for a black cloak inlaid with the feathers of ravens and crows. Her Samhain aspect was not what she preferred, but in any of her incarnations, the Goddess never thought of herself as anything but beautiful. She was the Old One; the night sky during the autumnal months and the stars seemed to extinguish, the bitter cold wind the warned of the coming Yule celebration, and the cold black void of grief, but she was also the earth mother who brought wisdom and renewal to the weary and weak, the lesson that some things were better left behind.

    The Stag was her counterpart that arrived during the Samhain celebration. The last occasion the Crone had seen the Stag, he had the appearance of a freckled child, the innocence of summer and its warmth, the growth of the crops that were to be harvested when he was the Stag. The Horned One brought tales of the hunt, the crops harvested for the sale or for the table, and the animals that were to die so the humans could eat. Whatever his appearance, horned or youthful, the God accompanied the Goddess.

    After an eternity of life and death, the God and Goddess never tired of the celebrations of humans. Whether the Samhain bonfire before them or the little paper boats set afloat to carry blessings down a river to celebrate the Summer Solstice, both deities thought that humans had a funny way of showing their thanks.

    The raven sat upon the Crone's shoulder rustled its feathers. The Stag regarded the sight before them as the humans gathered torches and lit them with the flames of the bonfire. It was long after sunset and the humans would take the fires to their homes to keep the cleansing flame of Samhain close after dirt was cast to extinguish the bonfire. The spirits and mischiefs of the Otherworld could very easily slip through the veil on this night.