A Midsummer Tale

They came to fetch her in the dead of night, seven masked men taking her from the warmth of her feather-filled bed and out into the chill moonlight. She had known, of course, that they were coming yet her pulse quickened now that the moment was come.

She was delivered to the old chapel, its ivy-draped walls golden in the candlelight as her raiment was prepared, as she was bathed & oiled & clad in finest linens. When they led her to the stones, a circlet of bones & roses was placed upon her brow, a wand of rowan in her hands before she lay meekly down upon the great blue lias slab. This had been her fate since birth, pre-ordained, inevitable.

Yet amongst the villagers was one not content to stand by and watch Amaline slaughtered like a sacrificial goat. Thoumas was young and Thoumas was foolish and Thoumas carried a knife stolen from his father’s forge. As the priest intoned the Midsummer rite and the sky showed coral & pink on the eastern horizon, he slipped the blade from his belt, stepped quietly to the edge of the crowd and as the sun’s first rays hit the stones, ran with a roar toward the altar stone. His vision of his love free to escape with him through the morning mists banished all doubt and fear.

Before any could react, he plunged the blade into the priest once, twice, thrice before he, too, felt the cold bite of steel. Amaline’s scream rent the heavens as she saw the sword blade emerge from her lover’s breast, saw his blood spurt, saw his corpse fall to the dew-bedecked grass.

Her brother Blaive would not stand by and see her besmirch the family name, break the tradition of centuries. Their family had ever given their blood to placate the old gods, she would not bring dishonour upon them.

As he raised his blood-dripping blade to complete the ritual, his sister uttered a curse, wished upon him such nightmares as would steal his sleep & sanity from this day forth, and condemned his shade to haunt this site for ever more. ‘Tis said he walks here still.