paused, imagining the heat and excitement inside. She pictured the community in there, some sitting at the tables around the edges or standing by the bar, others galloping round to the lively music, everyone talking, laughing and having a good time. Whilst here she was outside in the cold night with fury in her heart. She turned away, thankful that the night was so wintry for there’d be no couples strolling around the Green or dallying under the trees.
Leveret stepped onto the grass of the ancient clearing and walked across to the first in the great ring of trees that clustered around the open arena. Her head was completely clear now. She strode straight-backed around the circumference of the Green under the branches of the many trees. Her dark cloak billowed around her, the white dress clothing her in its symbolic purity. She called the name of each tree as she passed beneath its boughs – lime, ash, hornbeam, oak, chestnut, beech – summoning the tree spirits that were sleeping now but would soon awaken. Leveret called the trees from their slumber and bid them add their strength and energy to hers. When she’d completed the circuit she proceeded into the centre of the Village Green and stood there, her breath clouding around her in the cold night.
Leveret tipped her head back to the skies and saw the setting moon behind the dark branches. It was still a waxing crescent, grown from the new moon of earlier in the week, and shone huge and golden as it dipped in the sky in a great bow. Leveret raised her arms to the heavens, the cloak falling back to reveal her Bright Maiden costume. Her silver crescent birth charm hung round her neck. With outstretched hands she gathered in the energy of the crescent, calling upon the elemental forces to come to her and fill her with their magic. Leveret summoned the spirit of the Huntress, the goddess in her aspect of the Maiden. She chanted her many known names: Isis, Artemis, Selene, Diana, Bride, Brighid, Freya – the names given over thousands of years by such different people and cultures, but all addressing the same energy source. She called on the powerful spirit of the emergent female huntress, reborn every year at Imbolc and every month with the new moon.
‘I summon you, Huntress! Fill me with your energy and magic! Come to my body and make me as strong and powerful as you. Give me the strength of your bow and the sharpness of your arrows so I may fight my enemies. Take my softness and weakness and tears and fill me with your force, purpose and steel. If I falter in my intent, stiffen my resolve. Make me hard and pitiless towards those who try to hurt me. I summon you, Maiden, and I ask for your powerful magic!’
The darkness thickened around her as she dropped her arms and turned away. No casting a circle or the protection of salt tonight – Leveret had made contact with the power source directly like lightning finding its earth. Walking back in her bedraggled white dress with the dark cloak flying around her, she tingled with a spiky new energy. Tomorrow, when they all trooped up to the Lammas Field to burn the dolly harbouring the Corn Spirit and return it to the earth amongst the ashes, Leveret would go to the springhead instead, sacred to the Maiden, and make her own personal offering. She made her way back across the Green towards the cottage, her sharp teeth glinting in a small smile, the light of battle in her green eyes.
She was watched by a figure standing in the shadows, a figure which melted into the darkness as she passed by, not wishing to be seen by her again this night.
Alone in his office, Harold stared at the screen intently, his quick brain analysing the projected figures. He’d visited the Barn briefly earlier on as a token gesture of community participation, but had quickly sensed the hostility amongst many of the people present. His quotas were becoming an increasing bone of contention and after a drink at the bar Harold had left to come back to the Hall. It didn’t matter as he wasn’t one for socialising, far preferring the solitude of his office. This was where it all happened; this was the little kernel that kept Stonewylde going.
He was expecting an important e-mail tonight, something so big that the mere thought of