Gates of Eden: Starter Library Page 8

  The trees were the main clue. Time was on rewind. The world around me moved like time-lapsed photography in reverse. But how much time was passing? Decades? Centuries? Millennia, even? It all passed too quickly to even attempt to measure. Everything around me changed speedily and drastically. Only the large boulder evolved subtly and slightly as its weathered surface became coarse.

  Finally, it stopped. Everything froze, abruptly, in place. Only the stone was familiar. Now its surface was decorated by patches of moss. I found myself in some kind of primitive village. Huts of grass, reeds, and mud were scattered all around with no obvious arrangement dictating their placements. Small fires, still frozen in stasis, were built in front of some of the huts. The village was bordered by a dense forest, quite a distance beyond where I and the great boulder stood.

  “What you know as the British Isles, Scotland”—my father’s voice resonated in my mind—“this is where I was born.”

  “When?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. We had no real sense of history then. No way of accounting for years. Not precisely. It was before Christianity reached the lands. Long before the Roman Empire. Our people built Stonehenge, but this even predates that by a few generations. To put it bluntly, son, your father is quite literally older than Moses.”

  I was too perplexed to pick up his joke. My father—from the distant, distant, distant past. From this prehistorical village. It was all a bit much to comprehend. How did he ever end up in the twenty-first century? A time machine was out of the question—these people were not advanced at all. Too primitive.

  While his voice was technically echoing from within my head, for some reason my instincts directed my incredulous gaze skyward.

  “These memories will explain everything, son.”

  “This can’t all be memory, Dad.”

  “Why not?”

  “That whole hyper-speed rewind through the history of the world routine…”

  “That was a memory, son.”

  “But how?”

  It was my memory—just not my original memory. Several years ago, after you were born, in fact, I traveled here. I was trying to learn more of our history. What all happened with our people in the centuries I had missed. It was hard to find. I was just a boy when I was here… But this large stone—when I saw it, I knew it immediately. As you have already discovered, stones can store memory. Some stones even act like recorders of a sort; the impressions of the past are all somehow stored within its constituent elements. When I came here, I attempted to extract our people’s history from this stone. I saw it. But I saw it all in reverse, and far too quickly to really interpret… I tried to slow it down…”

  “So what I saw, traveling back in time, was what you remembered seeing from the stone?”

  “Exactly. Not unlike what some people mistake for ghosts. Residual history, contained in the great stone deposits of the Earth, replays itself over and over. It’s perceptible even to the average person when the conditions are just right. But never ghosts. Not typically. What you see now is history—my history.”

  “So, you can just read these stones? Any stone? At will?”

  “In part. And not any stone. The stone must have a crystalline structure within it. I can read them well. I suspect not so well as you could… As you will, rather, in time.”

  “Me? In time? What do you mean?”

  “Again, son, all will be explained. There’s something I need to show you here. The hut you see about ten paces ahead—go to its opposite side.”

  I wanted to ask my father more questions. I had a ton of questions. He seemed intent, though, on showing me rather than telling me what I needed to know. I would have to be patient and let it all play out. This was his show, and I was his audience.

  I took the ten steps required to reach the hut and made my around to its face. There, sitting upon a log, was a young boy holding a carved-out bowl full of nuts and berries. One hand was frozen in place, and a single berry floated in midair between his fingers and gaping mouth. His face was dirty. He was scantily clothed in animal hides. Dark, long hair. Brown, familiar eyes. This boy was my father.

  Behind him, just inside the hut’s asymmetrical opening, stood a middle-aged woman. Her long, dirty-blond hair was frizzed out and in disarray, pulled up haphazardly atop her head. The expression frozen upon her face was… eccentric. But who wouldn’t look odd frozen in place? She had a soft, thin, and kind countenance. Her slender frame was covered in a robe of hide, accentuated by leaves and pressed flowers. A primitive attempt at fashion. She was hunched over a stone slab. In one hand sat a large nut. In the other she held a rock, prepared to strike at its shell.

  I returned my attention to my father. It was strange thinking of the boy as my dad. He couldn’t have been more than twelve. He was paying the woman no attention—at least, not at this frozen-in-time moment. Instead, his eyes were directed curiously beyond the midair berry toward another figure in the distance.

  I approached the man who had captured my father’s attention. He was clearly from somewhere else. He was a tall man of robust build. Olive in complexion. He wore a white robe. I wondered how anyone in those days could produce a fabric so bright and pure—not to mention keep it that way. The white robe stood in a stark but alluring contrast to his long, flowing black hair and tanned skin. He had no beard, nor even discernible stubble. Odd for a dark-haired man of probably thirty. He wore leather sandals and walked with a staff.

  I felt a subtle breeze hit my cheek.

  The people around me were now in motion. The paused vision began to play. I turned to my father just in time to see his berry miss its target and bounce into the dirt at his feet.

  I looked around to get my bearings. I wanted to make sure nothing else of importance needed my attention. Other figures were clearly moving around, but they were subtly out of focus. Only my father, the woman, and the strange man were crystal clear.

  A shrill female’s voice startled me. I quickly jerked my head in the direction of the woman, now standing just outside the hut’s entrance.

  “Diarmid! It isn’t polite to stare.”

  “I know. I just can’t help it, Ceridwen. There is something about that man. Something weird.”

  Ceridwen—that was the woman’s name. But what did she call my dad? Diarmid? The boy had to be my father. The likeness was uncanny. Not to mention this was his memory, and there were no other young boys in sight. But my dad’s name was Cornelius. Cornelius Wadsworth. At least, it was in the twenty-first century.

  “He’s a stranger, Diarmid. Strangers are supposed to be strange. Hence the name ‘stranger.’”

  “Where do you think he came from?”

  “I can’t say. Of all the travelers and tradesmen who have managed to cross the seas from the mainland, none have had such dark hair or skin. I have never seen clothes so white. Surely he comes from a distant land.”

  “Do you think he’s dangerous, Ceridwen?”

  “He travels alone. I find it unlikely that he intends to do us harm. He has a kind face. He has gentle, soft hands. Not the hands of a warrior. Tell me, Diarmid—you have been watching him. Has he shown any interest in our elders and their gatherings?”

  “Not at all.”

  “So he has no interest in our politics. Have you seen him fraternize with our hunters, or the village guard?”

  “No ma’am. I haven’t seen him speak to anyone!”

  “So he has no interest in our means of protection and weaponry. His purposes are surely harmless. Perhaps he is lost.”

  “And he never seems to eat. Never pees or poops! I’ve yet to even find him sleeping, and he has been walking amongst us for a half-moon’s cycle!”

  “Don’t you eat and sleep? Maybe he does those things while you’re busy doing the same. And Diarmid… everyone poops.”

  I chucked at the revelation. An eternal truth, pondered by the ancients and passed along in modern children’s books.

  My father, Diarmid, was looking bac
k at Ceridwen incredulously. “No one does those things at the exact same time as anyone else!”

  “I’m sure there is a rational explanation. I know I’m not your mother, Diarmid, but I’m the closest thing you have to one. If your parents were alive, I’m sure they would tell you the same. Let the poor stranger be. Here, we welcome the traveler.”

  “But Cer—” Diarmid began to protest.

  “But nothing,” she interrupted. “The order is convening tonight, so I won’t be here to keep an eye on you. If you must stalk the man, at least try not to be a nuisance about it.”

  Diarmid seemed to pay her exhortation no mind. “The order? Again? Do you have to go?”

  “I am the order’s Ovate, Diarmid. My attendance is essential.”

  “Essential for what? I’ve heard the others. They mock it all. They think the order is all superstition. They think you’re crazy. All lunatics!”

  Ceridwen sighed. “They no longer believe the legends of our fathers. They have lost faith in our dances. But a great many still persist. We believe.”

  “We? Who else belongs to the order, anyway? No one who would admit to it, I reckon.”

  “Most of them no longer live in the village. We are… unwanted here. I am scarcely tolerated. I only remain for your sake, Diarmid.”

  “What are the legends, Cer?”

  “I will tell them to you. On one condition.”

  “Okay…”

  “That you behave tonight in my absence.”

  Diarmid sighed. “Okay. I promise. No trouble!”

  Ceridwen’s crooked smile was met with Diarmid’s wide eyes as she pulled over a small, crudely made stool and sat upon it. Instinctively I joined them, sitting Indian style beside my prepubescent father. I positioned myself so I could hear the conversation about to ensue while also keeping the stranger, who was now perched upon a stone in the distance, in view. The intriguing figure was clearly important, and I didn’t want to miss anything. Who knew if I’d ever be able to access these memories a second time?

  Better safe than sorry. I was intent to capture every detail in the moment.

  Diarmid popped another berry in his mouth. This time—he shoots, he scores!

  Ceridwen took a deep breath, apparently gathering her thoughts. She assumed an erect posture and cleared her throat. As she spoke, a cadence accompanied her voice that was not discernible before. She was reciting words she had carefully memorized.

  “No mother nor father

  made me at all;

  Substance and shape

  were the nine-fold senses;

  They spring up from fruits,

  from the divine roots,

  from wild flowers—primroses—

  Blossoms from the hills, trees and shrubs—

  and I am of earthy clay

  on my birth day

  And of nettle bloom

  and the ninth wave’s foam.”

  Diarmid stared at her blankly and raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

  A grin split Ceridwen’s leathery complexion. “A song of Ask and Embla, the first man and the first woman. Have you never wondered, Diarmid, where we all come from? Every child is born of a father and mother. But what about the first father and mother? Where did they come from? How were they born?”

  Diarmid shrugged. “I suppose I never gave it much thought.”

  “An important matter to consider. If we don’t know where we are from, it is immensely difficult to tell where we are going.”

  Diarmid nodded, considering the wisdom of Ceridwen’s words. He began to open his mouth as if to speak, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he tilted his head as if to invite the wise woman to continue.

  “According to our legends, Ask and Embla were first molded from earthen clay. The All Father, the master craftsman and creator of all creatures, took earth into his hands and carefully formed our flesh. Our lives and every member. Thus the earth itself became our mother, the soil the very womb from which we were born. When the All Father commanded, when he breathed upon the clay form of man, life entered the body. These clay forms were known, in legend, as Ask and Embla.

  “They were beautiful beyond description, the finest of all the All Father’s creatures. The closest of all in resemblance to the All Father’s heart. So he made them his stewards. His representations. He charged them to assume care for all the earth, all creatures. Not to rule them, but to guide them, serve them, express the All Father’s love and goodness unto all.

  “And he prepared for them a grove. A home. A place we call Annwn. There he placed a special tree. It would serve as a reminder to Ask and Embla of their true origins. It was rooted firmly in the earthen soil, from which it first emerged as if from a womb. Ana—Earth. The mother. But also reaching ever upward. The tree’s limbs always reaching out to the All Father, as a small child reaches up to his parents to pick him up, to help him walk. The tree was nourished both by mother Ana, the Earth, but also from the All Father, who gives it light and rain. It yielded its fruit abundantly—as if in gratitude for all it received.

  “Thus the tree was to be honored. Revered. Not as a god itself, but as a reminder to Ask and Embla of their beginnings, the source of life. And their responsibility, too. Dependent upon the earth, they were to care for it. To respect it. The earth provided them food. Because all animals shared this in common with man, the animals were to be cared for as if brothers and sisters, loved and protected. But it was ultimately the sun and rain that gave the tree its life from the soil. So, also, man was to be reminded by the tree of the All Father’s loving kindness. Like the tree, mankind was made to reach out to him with our limbs in dependence, in worship.

  “But there was another tree placed in Annwn. It grew wildly. Its roots consumed the life of whatever else grew near. Thorns grew out from its trunk, choking out life, ensnaring any creatures which might draw too close. It, too, consumed sunlight and rain, but it paid no homage to the All Father. Its limbs drooped downward, not reaching up to the source of the goodness, but to the soil which it exploited for itself.

  “It sometimes sprouted red berries—but most creatures avoided its poisonous fruit. The tree yielded nothing willingly, and punished those who would take of its fruit. This tree existed for itself, and for itself alone.

  “It was a grim reminder to Ask and Embla what would become of them if they, too, forgot their true source. If they, too, would exploit rather than care for the earth. If they ever forgot what it meant to be human, to live in loving gratitude and service, they would be damned to live like the Wayward Tree itself.

  “So Ask and Embla would gather around the first tree—the Tree of Life. They would sing there. They would dance. The creatures of Annwn would gather with them. The Dryad and nymph—the nurturers and protectors of the forest. The bear, the lion, the deer, and the lamb. The birds would sing, and the wolves would howl.

  “All the while, that second tree—the grim, Wayward Tree—lurked in the background. Always a warning. Always… there. At first, its sight evoked fear. But eventually the creatures became accustomed to its dreadful presence. When evil is tolerated long enough, it eventually becomes accepted.

  “The creatures would gallop, slither, fly, or walk past it without even giving it a thought. They imagined it simply wasn’t there. But it was. From fear… to indifference… to curiosity. Curiosity inevitably became temptation.

  “The stories suggest it was the serpent who first ventured toward that second tree. Did he feel left out of the dance due to his short stature? Did he feel a kinship with this second tree? The serpent’s venom was not unlike the tree’s poisoned fruit. Theories abound, of course. But legend tells us that after the serpent slithered to the tree, the woman Embla followed. Ask was not far behind. Did they pity this tree they had once feared? Some suggest they danced for the second tree. Other stories insist they partook of its poisoned fruit. Still others say they were ensnared by it, wounded by its thorns. Perhaps all three of these occurred.

  “Many cr
eatures followed their lead—but not the nymph or the Dryad. The Dryads rose up and chased Ask and Embla out of Annwn’s sacred grove. Ask and Embla were exiled to desolate lands. The nymph cast a spell, severing Annwn from the Earth, separating it from all space and time so that Ask and Embla could never return. Not until they purified their hearts. Not until they learned to dance before the Sacred Oak aright.

  “A great spirit, it is said, has been set by the All Father between our worlds. Not only does the gatekeeper prevent the children of Ask and Embla from returning to Annwn, but if they sought the dance aright, would send them blessings from the grove. It was a sign that they were on the righteous path—a promise that gave them hope that the divide between worlds might one day be healed.”

  “And that is why you dance?” Diarmid asked.

  “It is,” Ceridwen continued. “But it has been many generations since the dances have evoked such gifts from Annwn. Some have lost faith. But we of the order, we Druids, persevere.”

  Ceridwen had captured Diarmid’s full attention. The word “Druid” certainly captured mine as well. That’s what Joni had called me. A Druid.

  I also couldn’t help but notice Ceridwen spying now upon the strange foreigner in the distance as she spoke. Her glances his way were telling. She knew… or suspected… something. Now that she held Diarmid’s attention, though, she wasn’t about to let the conversation wane.

  “Have you ever seen a circle dance, Diarmid?”

  He gave the question a moment to percolate in his mind. “Like we sometimes have for weddings? Or when we celebrate the ascent of a new king for the village?”

  “Yes. Those rituals have their origins in the Druid dances of old. But the Druid’s dance is less rehearsed. A natural, passionate celebration of life, of the earth. A sacrifice of sorts—of the individual unto the whole. A collective energy of many becoming one, all swirling about a circle. In the days of old, it is said some could see that energy—like a great, colorful, and vibrant cone rising from the center of the dance.”