The old crone noted that the last two weeks have been unseasonably warm, and she was looking forward to days of snoozing with her fairy cattle up in the high corries. Then suddenly she sneezed, then she sneezed again. As she wiped her nose with her sleeve she looked around, and just south of Loch Lomond was a long grey-brown plume of smoke. She had to shake her head, refocus her eyes and have another long sniff. Fire, she confirmed muttering to herself, before she realized FIRE! Snow on the mountains and fire on the moor, what to do, what to do!
Snow on the mountains and fire on the moor, what to do, what to do!
She began running in her undulating gait, and on arriving at the fire she quickly began picking up moths, and a very disturbed curlew and oystercatcher, both sitting on nests. She carefully placed both birds in her pockets, relocating moths and butterflies moths in her hair, picking up an adder (snake), she quickly curled him around her neck.
Jumping around, stomping out flames with her bare feet, unwittingly she was in fact fanning the flames and before she knew what was happening, her cloak was on fire!
To anyone watching she looked like she was dancing a jig, her surprisingly quick footwork putting out the remaining flames. She sat down, winded after all that activity, and wiped her blackened soles. She placed the bird nests far from the scorched earth and brought the mamas back to their eggs. One by one she took the butterflies and moths from her hair, save one that had decided it had taken up residence.
She stood up slowly, tisked a few times through pursed lips, and then did a curious thing. She was feeling rather sweaty from all that work and heat, and a little singed, a little dusted in soot, and her feet felt rather warm – and so she walked the few miles to Loch Lomond and sat down on the banks where she massaged her feet and washed the hem of her cloak.
She stepped into the loch waters, gasping a little at the coldness of the water. Slowly she inched her way in up past her legs to her belly, even the old crone was chattering her teeth moving uncontrollably. As she strode out further the water up to her throat and ears she remembered the deep calm, the pressure of the water, and the darkness – all so comforting. A few steps more and she was on the bottom of the loch.
This is not a ritual that humans get to see, for she’s entering into another realm. Humans have forgotten that the ancient world is all around us, it’s the mountain behind the mountain, the rain cloud behind the raincloud. All these normal little things under our noses are the way in, but the majority of humans don’t see what’s under their noses and much prefer the big lights and the glamour and are so easily distracted they don’t see the treasure in the small things.
She walked into the loch, who knew she could breathe underwater, he said. She was standing there at the very bottom of the loch – it’s a curious thing he said – from outside the loch, she seemed huge even gigantic, and yet somehow when in the loch she seemed smaller. Her eyes were closed and her hair moved about her waving in the water. She looked very serene he commented. And she was serene, for all the worries of the fire and the birds had been washed away. Bealltainn sits across from Samhuinn on the wheel, where she ushered in winter by washing her tattered old cloak in the waters of the Whirlpool of Corryvrecken.
This washing is a sacred ritual, a ritual of rebirth, and so Bealltainn mirrors her Samhuinn ritual and so the year renews itself. As the northern hemisphere comes into summer the south descends into the dark months of winter.