The Cruciform

In the year of our Lord 1165, at least fifty abbeys across the Kingdom of England have been erected atop ancient pagan ritual sites to honour Almighty God. I, Brother Elias, intend for Calanais to be the fifty-first.

Clad in their woad-dyed cerulean robes, my Martha and I endure the first Bard's ceaseless chanting as we await to approach the central tomb. There are seven of us standing in a rough circle at the centre of the Cailanais standing stones, surrounded on all sides by toothy monoliths that tower over us. The Sun is yet to rise, a grey pre-Dawn mist hanging in the air.

We each bear an offering: holly, pine cones, evergreen boughs, and sprigs from fir and cedar trees. In my own hands, I hold a string of juniper berries. The Druid, barefoot and wild-eyed, moves between us, wafting smoke from a bundle of burning meadowsweet across our robes. I struggle not to weep from its sting, and Martha coughs into her sleeve beside me. It mingles with the stench of unwashed bodies and the damp earth, the air heady and rich. The steel dagger tucked into my belt sharpens my resolve, as I feel its cold press against my navel.

The pagans have crawled here from the villages of Breasclete, Tolstachaolais, and Achmore, where we had deceived them to join their misguided pilgrimage. We posed as new initiates from Stornoway, eager to witness our first Summer Solstice at the famed Calanais stones. Only the Druid, the head of this circle, questioned our experience, but he was an unsuspicious man and welcomed us with Grace befitting a Christian.

Their so-called sacred tomb is naught but a ring of rocks with lines leading to the centre like the wheel of a cart, the surface long overgrown with moss. At the top lies a shallow cave, where four clean stones obscure the entrance in shadow. The Bard’s ode tells of an ancient Druid lying buried within. Upon the outer stones, the living Druid places a wooden bowl as the second Bard begins his tale, this time about Cailleach, the witch of Winter. I shut my ears to this heretical speech as the Druid pulls a grass doll from his pocket before reverently lowering it into the bowl.

The Calanais stones are pitiful. As we had crossed the meadow, they appeared as rotting teeth jutting from the earth, blackened and jagged. Yet the stones have been arranged in a cruciform, and therein lies its potential. It is obvious to me that, despite their primitive ways, some natural part of the pagans recognises Almighty God as their true Saviour.

I recall our grand Cathedral in Durham, with its glorious stained glass windows and soaring spires. I shall build an even grander tribute, and if any holy power resides in the bones mouldering in the tomb before me, I shall harness it for the Lord's glory.

My Martha stands an arm’s length away, her sandaled foot tapping impatiently on the damp grass. She holds a small bunch of sprigs like a humble bride. The third Bard now speaks, this time of the Shining One, and she gives him her rapt attention. ‘Tis the Shining One that drew us here. He tells that on Midsummer’s morn past, when the cuckoo called, he saw a figure of Light walk down the longest path of stones. The pagans believe it to be one of their false gods, but we know it to be our Lord.

The Bard finishes his tale as the Druid’s bundle of burning grass comes to an end. He takes his place behind the tomb and addresses the bowl:

"O Cailleach," he cries, his crown of oak leaves trembling, "we give thanks for Winter's bounty. Now make way for the Light of the Sun!"

The first Bard, who stands closest to the tomb, walks up to the bowl and places his wreath of holly inside as the Druid taps his staff rhythmically against the grass and hums in a low register. The Orate turns her face to the sky and begins to scribe blindly onto the parchment in her hands, her eyes darting between the clouds. I pray silently, begging forgiveness for being in the presence of such witchcraft. Her brows knot, puzzled, and then the sides of her mouth turn down. She is afraid.

‘Tis Martha's turn to approach the tomb. I picture the polished wooden crucifix that I helped her hide within her bouquet before the ritual began. She grips the sprigs so tightly that her knuckles whiten. I pray she does not falter in our duty.

The Orate, wild with panic, opens her mouth to protest, but Martha has reached the bowl. She casts aside her offering, the branches falling silently onto the grass. She raises her arms above her head, the crucifix glinting in her hands, then plunges it into the tomb. The Bards look bewildered, but the Druid and Orate lunge forward. I leap between them and my Martha, brandishing my dagger.

"In the name of Jesus Christ, I claim this land for our Lord!" I declare, eyes darting between their shocked faces. They are not looking at me, however. Behind me, Martha shrieks. I turn to see her staring at where she thrust the crucifix. Blood bubbles from the crevice, spilling over the moss and flowing toward the outer stones.

The Sun crests over the horizon, marking the solstice. I can see every crook in the blood path down the tomb, every crack in the lips of the Orate, who has turned white as Death. The Druid marches forward, but before he is within slashing distance, his body lurches forward, and the ground beneath my feet rumbles. The bowl topples from the tomb, and the doll with all her offerings rolls to my feet. I crush the thing beneath my sandal before being thrown to the ground. Martha and I cling to each other, pleading for God's mercy.

The quake dims. We both heave for breath, waiting, listening for another rumble. The air is punctuated by a desolate silence, one without even the buzz of insects or murmur of wind. I feel a presence pressing in on all sides, and when I go to stand, my foot strikes stone where none had been before. I turn onto my back and flinch at the great, serrated monolith that looms over us.

With the tomb at her back and the new stone at mine, we struggle to disentangle our robes. I press myself against the rock to allow Martha to squeeze her way out, and I feel a warm resonance beneath my fingers like that of the Druid’s humming.

The Druid, Orate, and Bards are nowhere to be seen. Where I last saw them now stand more of those grey, uneven stones. They appear as if they have always been here, discoloured and weathered like the rest. The blood from the crucifix has pooled at the base of the tomb, drowning the crushed effigy of Cailleach in crimson.

The Sun flares anew as if rising for a second time, brighter and hotter than before. We turn our faces to it, letting the light warm our skin where it had gone cold with fear moments ago. It unfurls itself higher into the sky, the lavish blue around it dissolving first into orange, then gold, then pure, beating whiteness. I shield my eyes with my sleeve, but Martha gazes upward in rapture.

"The Shining One..." she breathes, spreading her arms wide to welcome His embrace.

The warmth passes into the threshold of pain in an instant, and the skin on my arm begins to burn despite the cloth. The leather straps of my sandals score my feet, and there is a sizzling sound. Martha begins to scream. I smell smoke, and my eyes feel too hot in their sockets. When I try to open them, a gelatinous fluid flops out onto my cheeks. The stench of roasting meat fills the air.

May God have mercy on our souls.