 Mairne's boy child was called Fionn and grew to walk and talk and remember fondly the cruel sprites who had indeed attended to him, those winged, miniature females who had inspired within his young breast a fondness for chastisement, ridicule and pain. Assigned to the care of an elder Druid who shared the same name as himself, Fionn attempted to relate the strange and magical events of the elder crib, though on each occasion was silenced and given studies of poetry and foreign languages, the Irish classics being his favorite tales. The priest-tutor did impart his knowledge to the lad and when twenty-two winters had passed, Fionn was deemed sufficiently prepared to be told the secret language of the forest, the Tree Alphabet, derived from Goddess Luna and her thirteen cycles, used for divination by the ancient Order of the Oak. Old Fionn explained took care to explain the cycle with care, never committing a word to the page: Beth the Birch Luis the Rowan Nion the Ash Fearn the Alder Saille the Willow Uath the Hawthorn Duir the Oak Tinne the Holly Coll the Hazel Muin the Vine Gort the Ivy Pethboc the Dwarf Elder Ruis the Elder. "Never speak the name of Ruis," his mentor warned, "unless you do so on bended knee, for she is a cruel goddess, the tree of doom is her own." "No!" Fionn cried out, remembering his faery nursemaids, "no! Never shall I forsake the elder, for she is the tree of the Sidhe and if her shade is a symbol of death, then I say that the leaves of Ruis are shaped as doorways, portals, gateways to be passed through, not feared." "You are mistaken," the Druid intoned. "The thirteenth is the most unfortunate, unlucky wood of the world. The witches use the branches of Ruis as enchanted horses, the Christ's Crucifix was fashioned from elder and Judas, the despised one, hanged himself from a branch of your goddess - so, take care, Fionn, take great care what you revere." "She is the tree of wisdom," the youth maintained. "The embodiment of fate and that which must happen, and I shall dedicate verses to her, traveling the land as far as the encampments of our brothers, the Eisteddfodau of Wales, where I will be rechristened Gwion and forget this foul blasphemy." True to his oath, Fionn gathered his belongings, left his mother Mairne and wandered the countryside, following the course of the river Boyne, by whose banks the elders grew in great abundance. He thought naught of the speckled birches of Beth, nor of the quickening properties of Luis' rowan. He forgot Nion's ash of the seafarers and Fearn's charcoal-producing alder, sad Saille's weeping willow and chaste Uath's celibate hawthorn. The new Gwion even rejected the sacred tree of the Druids, the oak, and likewise their potent holly, eschewing Coll's hazel of knowledge along with Muin's bountiful vine. Only Gort's ivy was allowed a passing consideration, for he thought it might make a lovely decoration, wrapped about the furrowed tree trunks of Ruis' living monuments. And perhaps Peithboc, too, for she was a water-elder and thereby a kin of his love. Not wholly understanding his devotion to Ruis, Gwion queried many travelers on the road, asking for details concerning the tree's sacred lore. Most would mutter and curse him, still others said nothing, but once in a great while a kind word did come forth. When solace was given, Gwion made more notations, then would find a solitary elder and pay her his troth. He learned that her colour was said to be Ruadh, or blood-red, and the bird of her nests was always the rook. Her blossoms were white, her leaves were the first buds and her holy day the Solstice of Winter, so short. The legends all claimed that her ground was unhallowed, yet Gwion loved to lay himself down at her roots. He would rest his tired head against a trunk of his beloved, praying in tears to his faeries to show him her way. "Am I cursed?" he would cry. "Am I mad, am I blind? I shower Ruis with the most fervent of kisses, but never, not one time, has she shown me her dark, lovely shape." Abandoned, rejected, the youth remained constant and did not complain for his destiny was her whimsy, and close to one year was spent composing her songs. Gwion saw Ruis majestic: green leaves as Maiden, white flowers Mother, berries stern Mistress, three aspects in One. His loyalty was rewarded when he came upon a shaman, who told him the sacred hoop of the shield of the wise men, was formed of bent elder, and fires of that wood gave dreams of great vision, where priests could transverse the spirit worlds and visit sages of yore. Your arrows find the hearts of all of your enemies, Your wine is the sweetest and deflects any curse. Such was the song Gwion sang one cold night, as he lit elder twigs, sitting down alongside roots, staring up at the dark moon of Ruis, breathing in the smoke of her perfume, hoping for shadows to become form. Gnarled extensions of tree trunk slowly snaked 'round a finger, then another and three more - taking a hand in their grasp. Then a boot became captive, a strong thigh, then another; before long Gwion found himself embraced, bound and lashed. Oh, Ruis, come swiftly, I hear your fleet foot, Elder green juice of rough bark will make my eyes see, Burnt offerings produce you, sweet queen, I do plead. And as the Druid sighed - enraptured at the miraculous sight of the Ruadh goddess, the Empress of the Elder, more mighty and complete than any other deity of the Sacred Tree Language - the supreme lady lifted on high a young elder shoot that oozed a thick, white pith. "How you have yearned for this moment, Gwion, favored son of the Sidhe. And because your tormented tears have watered my elders, I shall show you through the arch, through the sacred hoop dividing all the worlds and all the universes. Prepare to be transported." Gwion bent his back, thrust his chest forward and received the wisdom of Ruis, watching the galaxies unfold. |
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