Songs after midnight

Ok folks,
this one is a bit acid trippy so please bear with it. It's based on a dream I had in mid-November and I brushed it up and pieced it together a couple of weeks ago. Being a good deal more linear in plot than the average dream I thought it was worth writing down no matter how weird, so here you have it:

Songs after midnight

 

Some men have dreams too big to dream, desires too big to chase, ideas too wild to fulfil. But it’s a funny quirk of human nature, this will to push the boundaries of what’s accepted as the limits of what’s possible. There are those who dare to dream and have the drive to make that dream a reality. Seven crew members of a space shuttle believed just that; they asked the question, what lies in the great beyond? How do we reach it? How do we make use of it? What seeds of wild possibility can this plant for the future of mankind? The answer they came away with was not the answer to those questions but to another one entirely.

It happened in the cold depths of January, in an America filled to bursting with such expectation and wonder. Challenger was to be the vessel that would take mankind into a new world, to take it on and win. The astronauts had trained for many years, and friends and family waited with tears and trembling goodbyes as Challenger took them up and with an almighty roar, into the vast unknown on a voyage of limitless discovery.

There was blinding light, then carnage. Joy turned to horror as shrapnel fell down from the sky and the air exploded with debris. The soft, melancholy voice of a leader filtered out of television sets and radios to the ears of sobbing citizens. That day was a day for mourning and remembering, for those who had a hunger to explore the universe and discover its truths. They had a special grace, a special spirit that said, ‘give me a challenge and I’ll meet it with joy.’ The people would never forget them, as they prepared for their journey and waved goodbye, and slipped the surly bonds of Earth to touch the face of God.

But the crew members were unaware of the fate that had befallen them, and ahead they charged, into the star-spangled darkness. So filled with wonder were they at what they saw that the loss of contact with Mission Control was ignored; they had lost sight of the Earth as if it had been swallowed up by the blackness but no-one had noticed; the Sun seemed so bright, the stars seemed to dance and the black became a vibrant, shining light that enfolded the crew members like a warm caress.  Brighter and brighter it grew, becoming so intense it made them dizzy just to keep their eyes open. All turned to blinding white, then all faded to black.

He woke up surrounded by the blinding white. He sat up and looked around but it only made his head spin. He was sure he was sitting on solid ground, and tapped it with the palm of his hand. A solid floor, yet it seemed to melt into everything around him. Then there in the distance he could make out a shape, something moving – a figure approaching. A figure of a man, and as he walked the four corners of a large room seemed to fall into place around his feet, faint at first, now becoming clearer and perfectly defined. The man was dressed all in white, barely visible against the blinding wall, but his face was smiling and had soft, warm features. He held out his hand. The man took it, and shakily, with a big of a wobble, he scrambled to his feet.

“Do you know what happens after you die?” said the man in white with a smile.

Terror and confusion coursed through the crewman’s veins.

“Err...”

“Do you?”

“No. I can’t say I do. I’m as ignorant as any other. I think that’s the right thing to say.”

“There is no right or wrong,” the stranger replied with a beaming smile and a shake of the head. “Come. Come with me.”

The man in white led the crewman through the white light towards a door, which he opened and invited the man to go through. Above him rose a metal staircase painted white, going up, up and up into the white mists beyond...

“Go up those stairs. When you reach the top you’ll come to the corridor. I want you to walk to the end of it and go through the door.”

Shaking now, the crewman did as he was told and began to ascend the stairs. He looked down and both the stranger and the door were gone. Down there was white; up there was white. All there was for it was to take one step at a time.

He heard voices up above; giggling voices, chatting, laughing, floating down on the air and echoing through the whiteness. Then there were people, hordes trampling down the stairs, two, three abreast. He tried to make eye contact, to ask for information, but they looked right through him and disappeared down the staircase, their shapes and their voices disappearing into the whiteness.

Up, up and up he continued to climb, until he could see the end of the metal staircase up above. All was silent; all was still. Up he went, and as he reached the top, there was the corridor. There were the doors. Panic rose once again in his chest as he approached the doors, then touched them – they were cold, so cold, but he took a deep breath, then another, then pushed on through.

The brightness instantly subsided. It took a while for his eyes to adjust, but to his shock, he was back on Challenger with his crewmates going about their daily business. There was something different, something not quite the same as before; the colours seemed a bit brighter, the smells a bit sharper, perhaps. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“I’m glad you’re here. We drifted off-course,” his crewmate said to him, appearing in the doorway. “Completely off-course, we lost all contact, can’t figure out why, everything’s functioning as it should,” she continued with a shrug.

“We’ve regained sight of Earth and can’t go on without contact with Mission Control as you know, so we’re heading back. Mission aborted. Where were you by the way?”

“Err... I had a headache, I rested for a while,” he replied, the excuse sounding ridiculous in his mind yet somehow acceptable under the circumstances.

“Ok. We’ve set course back to Earth.”

“There’s something weird going on. Can you feel it? Have we had some kind of time lapse?” he asked.

“No... I don’t think so... are you ok?”

“Yes... yes let’s go home.”

The speed at which the planet was approaching made his stomach churn. There was no sign of the moon, surely not hiding behind the Earth for so long. As the Earth became bigger and bigger, it looked less and less how it should look; where greens and browns and whites flowed between deep blue seas, sprinkled in fluttering white clouds there was only grey, a dull, dank colour that encompassed the whole planet. Slowly the reality hit the crewman in the face; either something dreadful had happened, or this was not Home.

They approached the surface regardless, breaking through the planet’s atmosphere as the cabin filled with tension that turned to plain fear. On the planet’s surface there were dead, open plains surrounded by bodies of murky water. Down, down they went, as a weak sun shone over the lifeless planet. But there, in the distance... there was a platform of rock that rose out of the water, not very big, but filled with green. It was the only colour they’d seen and they made for it. The green was made up of basic plant life, some familiar, some less so... was it safe to land on it? Yes, it was worth the risk.

Softly, softly they touched down on what appeared to be grass. It was solid ground, so far so good. Around them the world was so quiet and still; no other signs of life were stirring. The outside seemed so enticing – there was something there, something through the grey. Voices, barely whispers to start with, gradually crescendoing into full song.

“Look over there!” a crewman cried. Off to the left a building rose out of the floodwaters – how had they not seen it before? And another behind it, and another off further to the left. Great structures of steel and glass, once grand, now falling into disrepair.

Louder the voices grew, until there in the window, shadowy faces began to appear. They weaved in and out of one another, sallow, sad faces that eventually began to take some kind of form. Still the song came, melancholy and sweet at the same time, penetrating the glass and ringing through the cabin. The forms seemed humanoid but still shadowy, neither present nor absent from the garden.

“Come,” they said, although they said nothing at all, and the song continued.

“Come outside and see.”

The song was alluring, intriguing, but the crewmen stood motionless.

“Come outside. It’s warm. It’s safe. Come into the garden.”

Bright flowers appeared in olive green shrubbery where before there had been none. The stone ledge filled with plant life and colour, teeming with reds and blues and oranges amid radiant greens. Slowly she stepped forward, slipped past and into the airlock.

“NO! God, no!”

The voices rose, the song reached its peak. One second she was out in the garden, looking around in wonder, the next they’d engulfed her in an icy grip, pushing her down to the ground. The crewmates leapt for the airlock but it was impassable.

“We want you to understand,” said the voices. “We don’t want humans to settle here ever again. You see those buildings? One, a school, the other, a hospital. The big one was housing for the thousands of people who first came here. They were not even here long, but look what they did. We chased them away, they found some other planet to destroy. Do not tell us that now you don’t understand.”

In an instant, they were gone, and she was gone. The buildings gleamed expectantly in the sunlight, abandoned, beginning to rust in the murky waters that lapped around their bases.

 

 

She found herself at the top of a metal staircase painted white, that went down, down into a white abyss. She followed it down, unsure why, singing a melancholy song that was ringing in her head, and laughing all the while.

 

Sophie Horrocks, 8th February 2013

In Fields of Barley

Howdy all,
in this week's assignment for my creative writing module we were asked to 'write a short story about where we come from.' My immediate thought was that there isn't a damn thing I could write about the achingly dull village where I grew up, so thoughts turned to Colchester and perhaps waffling on about soldiers or castles or whatnot. But then an idea popped into my head, a Lughnasad tradition I started a while ago that I've done every year, always being home around that time of year. Here goes....

She wakes up in the morning with a mission. The weather is perfect for it today, a red hot Sun rising and the sky a sea of piercing blue. She picks out a plain green dress and slips on some sandals, then ‘pat, pat, pat’ goes the sound of her feet as they skip over the carpet down the stairs. She takes from the dining room table a small paper bag she’s set aside for the occasion, then heads out the door.

It’s still fairly early in the morning but already the heat is rising. Today would be scorching. She lopes along the side of the road at a leisurely pace, closing her eyes to breathe in fresh, summer breeze with hints of lilac as it wafts over from a nearby garden. Joggers already exhausted from the heat squeeze past on the narrow pavement, followed by dog walkers and families out for a Sunday walk. The birds don’t know what to make of a heat wave and their songs float downwards, confused and frantic yet as sweet to her ears as any music.

She turns a corner and heads down a quieter road, the only noise now from the occasional passing car. Up ahead is the farm track, worn by tractors and weekend walkers yet ever on the brink of succumbing to nature’s grip of bursting green. She pushes through the bushes and her feet hit the track, rock hard and cracked by an unrelenting Sun. In the winter she’d be ankle deep in mud here. No rain for a week now. Thank goodness it’s harvest time, she ponders, else the crops might suffer. But to her right stands a sea of gold, tall and proud, and waving gently in a soft, warm breeze. She looks left, then right, then goes in.

She wades through an ocean of barley, bright golden yellow and ripe, treading carefully so as not to break any of the fragile stems as they swish past. Beyond are the wheat fields and the orchard, stretching into the distance in a haze of heat.  Finally she comes to the spot, a tree stump in the middle of the field, a small clearing where the crops cannot grow. And she just sits. She listens to the wind as it rushes through the barley, whispering news of more heat to come, no sign of rain, and of darkness beginning to close in as the nights grow longer. She feels a white hot Sun beating down on the crown of her head. She soaks in the energy, the warmth and life the Sun brings.

Carefully, she takes four stems of barley, bending and breaking them off near the root, and begins to weave a corn dolly. She becomes absorbed in her work, bending and weaving each sheaf around a small frame of stems. When it’s done, it isn’t perfect, or as symmetrical as she’d like it to look. It’s just a small square with barley heads sticking wonkily out at each corner, but when she holds it up to the sunlight it glows and radiates with heat and light.
Out of the corner of her eye she spots a small patch of grass that had not been there last year, with some daisies sprouting out of it. She plucks three daisies and arranges them haphazardly in the middle of the dolly, poking the green, fuzzy stems between lines of gold, then sets it down on the ground.

Strong gusts of wind begin to race over the tops of the crops, bringing the strong scent of earth and ripe grains. The barley heads nod and wave. She closes her eyes and listens, staying until the Sun has moved in the sky and thin, wispy clouds begin to roll over from the West and take the edge off the heat. She picks up the dolly, places it carefully in the paper bag and removes three hairs from her head, laying them on the ground. She turns and admires the view, gold bathed in gold, then turns, and begins to make her way back towards the farm track.

It is done.                                                                               

 Sophie Horrocks, 16th February 2013

Call to Prayer (first published on Grandchildren of Gaia, my sister blog)

Call to Prayer
I call to the hills and mountains
To the towns and to the cities
to the old and the young ones,
to the richest and the poorest.

I call to those by the river,
to those who live by the sea,
to those of every nation,
from all corners of our Earth.

I call to those in the forests,
to the ones who live out on the plains
I call you all to join as one
I call you all to prayer.

To those who have a god or gods,
I call to you to pray;
to those who do not pray, I ask
for action and reflection.

I call for all to join as one,
whatever you may believe.
I call to you to change this world,
to leave it better than we found it.

I call for en masse healing,
to heal both heart and mind.
If we can heal the earth around us,
so too are our hearts and bodies cleansed.

Clean the rivers and plant more trees,
learn to live in harmony,
Live with the land that nurtures us,
pray to make the change.

Don't bite the hand that feeds us,
Take care of what we have
Use wisely what is given to us,
Pray to make the change.

Let us join hands and rejoice in the earth,
let it fill us with its love and warmth
Let it cleanse us as we cleanse it
Pray to make the change.

I pray for healing of the body;
to mend broken bones and broken hearts;
to ward off illness and strife
to bring the flesh back to health.

I pray for healing of the mind;
to eliminate pain and end needless suffering
to restore peace and calm in the psyche
to bring a soul from the darkness to the light.

So I pray for healing of the earth;
Light a candle to brighten the way.
Stand on a hilltop and call to the winds
Cause a clamour and cause a stir
Rouse the people to take a stand
Pray to heal our home
Pray to make the change.

SH 8th February 2013

)O(

Prison without walls (2013 - first published on Grandchildren of Gaia, my sister blog)

 

Prison without walls

Marching they come, marching they go
Such busy lives, so much to do
So much to see and feel and hear
I see, I hear, but I feel nothing.

They rise in the morning with a plan in their heads
a bright, shining future, laid out and clear
round and round, to and fro they walk
Never stopping, too eager to move foward.

It's all very well to wake up in the morning
but why without reason or even a plan?
When day after day is all the same,
each week a counterpart of the next and the last.

The days roll by, no life, no colour
Each day a living death creeps closer and closer
a walking death is no life at all,
a life in flesh but a death in spirit.

Round and round with the others I walk,
a bright, shining future, clouded and dim,
such busy lives, I've so much to do.
Days of endless numbness, nights of coursing pain.

What is the purpose of a life,
if it remains a prison without walls?
How does one live the life of the others
from a cage of pain with invisible bars?

All in a day it begins to choke,
the bars wrap around and real pain claws through the numbness
It's time to get out, to escape
If there are no walls, who stops me from leaving?

I follow the coast down to a bridge
I cross the bridge and come to a town
Through the town I go, then through rolling hills
Til I find myself in the Glassy Isle.

Here there is healing
Here there is joy
Here there is friendship
Here there is trust.

I feel my heart begin to open
I feel my head begin to clear
The colours brighten, the sun shines brighter
I see a path open up before me.

I am home.

SH 7th February 2013

)O(

One Solstice Night (2012)

Asteroids rained down and forests burned,
yet few people seemed remotely concerned.
Floodwaters rose and thunderstorms churned,
But still the planet turned and turned.

"It's the end of the world!" some people cried,
"We told you so! Repent, run, hide!"
But I sat in my chair and sighed,
warm and snug on this Yuletide.

Every street of every town,
the whole land over, up and down,
was filled with shoppers running round,
To see how much they could grab for a pound.

"Stay indoors!" the reporter said,
as giant hailstones rained down on his head.
Well, I was snuggled in my bed,
warm and cosy and very well fed.

"It's Christmas, the world can't grind to a stop!"
came the uneasy voices from every shop,
as the people began to precariously hop
around burning rocks that would crackle and pop.

From the skies there came a breeze,
that made the land the world over freeze,
and what's this? It's raining mushy peas!
The repenters were down on their knees.

As earthquakes rocked the planet's crust,
And trees came down with one strong gust,
as buildings crumbled into dust,
where now were people to put their trust?

Well, good grief, it's very cold,
but you'd think the streets were paved with gold,
"Ignore the weather! Keep spending!" we're told,
as Christmas continues to be bought and sold.

Here is ending the shortest day,
the sunshine disappears, down to the last ray.
The shoppers barge each other out the way,
even though the darkness is here to stay.

So here has arrived the longest night,
I'll admit it's a most extraordinary sight,
this end of the world, but with all my might,
I wish for a returning of the light.

We waited and waited, through the dark,
now no noise save for a dog's bark,
what kind of legacy would this event mark?
The masses were gathering in the park.

But I was in my bed fast asleep,
I couldn't hear the scared people weep,
but then I saw sunshine, just a peep,
and out of my bed I sprang in a leap.

"Welcome to the new world," she said to me,
the smily newsreader on TV,
oh, what a beautiful thing to see!
A good slice of toast and a cup of tea!

Now the world was put to right,
the sun rising up, shining bright,
Mother nature went to these extremes? Well, quite,
to bring people together on solstice night.

Now the people began to understand,
as they gathered in the streets, hand in hand,
Forget the commercial! Gifts needn't be grand!
It took the end of the world to unite the land.

Merry Christmas, Yule, and Hannukah too,
or whatever celebration is best for you,
out with the old and in with the new,
May love and compassion be in all that you do.

)O(


Sophie Horrocks 18th December 2012

The Green life versus the Silver life (2011 - first published on Witchvox.com)

The ol’ Witch in the woods had a couple of beeswax candles, the Sun, Moon and stars and knowledge of the uses of herbs in her area to use in her practice. The modern Witch has the world at their fingertips at the click of a mouse button. Were things better in her time, without the cacophony of engine noise, the persistent hum of computers, and mobile phone signals that clog up the air? Or are we far better off out of the dark ages, living comfortable lifestyles without constant fear of persecution and with worldwide sharing of information?

I’ve always been a bit of a sci-fi geek, always fascinated with modern technology. I’m not a Mathematician or a Scientist – I’m a writer, and I spent my teen-hood making stories from ideas based upon Space exploration and travel. Most of the fiction I’ve ever written involves futuristic civilizations living in artificial cities built in Space, the ideas of which were researched through a lifelong fascination of ‘what’s out there’, and ‘where mankind will go with it all’. I’ve also always been a sucker for post- apocalyptic dramas and films; there’s nothing quite like the thrill of the sight of well- known cities like New York being mass flooded and frozen over as in The Day after Tomorrow, or deserted and left to nature to take over like in I am Legend, or even taken over by vicious aliens as in The War of the Worlds. In fact, any fiction where the planet freezes over or burns to a crisp or explodes will generally have me on the edge of my seat.

Like any young person, I wouldn’t be without my laptop, mobile and iPod, these things which make our day to day lives so much quicker, easier and more enjoyable. Find me a housewife who’d be without her prize washing machine or a businessman who’d function for a day without his Blackberry or iPhone. I’ve also always had a thrill for travel, particularly to far- flung, exotic places. It’s soggy and grey most of the year where I live, and like many Brits I’m a bit of a sun- seeker. How easy it is just to bulldoze normal life to one side, hop on a cheap flight and be transported into a sunnier, warmer, care- free world.

So you can see where we hit the snag.

Does the slow- paced, Earth- reverence lifestyle of Paganism not present the exact opposite sort of mentality? Pagans live in the here and now, grounded in the present, not worrying frantically about next week or mulling endlessly over a past loss or failure. The majority of us are focused mainly on environmental issues. (Would you let your backyard turn into a mini landfill site?) This is the reason so many Pagans pour so much effort into protecting the environment, everyone’s back yard, and many enjoy nothing more than a walk through sylvan parks, forests and alongside tinkling streams rather than in the pristine, perfectly geometric stone and metal cities of my imagination.

Air travel is of-course a big no-no, so that’s potentially struck off my ‘How to be a Perfect Pagan’ list, being the largest producer of Co2 as forms of transport go. Pagans who travel abroad often attempt to use trains or ferries unless no such alternative is available or practical for the journey being made. If all else fails, though, I’m told that planting a tree will cancel out the Carbon Dioxide produced by a medium- haul flight.

All the silver shiny things that make up our day to day lives, the computers that make us stay- indoorsy robots and the mobile phones that distract us for hours and hours on end from our natural surroundings, those things that make our lives easier and more enjoyable on the surface, but in the long term cause fatigue, depression and stress due to our over- busy lives and lack of communication with Earth's energies - how on Earth do we fit it into a modern Pagan lifestyle?

After all Pagans fulfill a variety of jobs and careers – there are Pagan IT technicians, plumbers, teachers, actors, writers… we wouldn’t be able to live in this age without technology. The answer is compromise, to combine the two. We can't progress without embracing modern technology. Without the wonders of the Internet this article wouldn't be reaching you. And ‘Progress’, when used to justify annihilating thousands of acres of rainforest, to deplete the world’s natural resources and to allow alarmingly and unnaturally rapid shift in the Earth’s climate, really makes me cringe.

It needn’t be like this. It’s industrial- age thinking. Progress as a species to me means developing sustainable ways of generating energy and living, while developing our technology without compromising our ozone layer or environment. This is of course easier said than done, but for me part of being a witch is always asking questions, always exploring new ideas and better and more eco- friendly ways of doing things.

The term 'Techno-Pagan' is becoming more and more widespread, to describe those who would use the Internet to network with other Pagans and bring together people and ideas. According to Wikipedia, the Techno-Pagans are also those who would use modern –day devices in ritual, such as a ‘disk of Shadows’ instead of a traditional book, using an oven for a hearth and a laser pointer instead of a wand. Some will go as far as to say that electrical devices have a soul or energy field of their own, and their use in ritual helps to bring together the spiritual and physical worlds. I will use music from my laptop to use in meditation, but generally speaking I like to keep the two separate.

There’s something magical about holding a book in your hands filled with carefully written- out pages, and using altar tools that you made yourself of things you found out in the park or in the garden. Though I’m sure many of us have the Internet to thank for the roots or development of our magickal education, or for networking with and maintaining contact with many more Pagans than otherwise would have crossed our paths.

But beside all this we can still make time to be one to one with nature, if we can only pause our hectic lifestyles for a brief time and take in the serenity of the Earth’s healing energies. I’m a great admirer of the Pagan author Starhawk, and her novel The Fifth Sacred Thing tells of a futuristic world where a bleak, totalitarian regime attempts relentlessly to invade a small green pocket of land where witches fight with their lives to protect diversity, freedom and the greenery of the planet. Here she combines my two favorite genres, and in the novel these two extremes are set to clash horribly. This isn’t the way it will be in my own life, though; getting the right balance is imperative to our wellbeing, and if we can reach for the silvery stars while keeping rooted in the green Earth, we will make great tracks indeed in our lives and in the lives of others.

---

Footnotes:
www.wikipedia.org
Starhawk, 'The Fifth Sacred Thing'

Modern Paganism in Spain (2011 - first published on Witchvox.com)

I’d like to share with you my memories of a daring leap I made last Litha, of my solo trip to a mountain retreat in the mountains of Gredos, Avila, in Spain to celebrate the solstice, and the subsequent research I carried out on modern Paganism in Spain to accompany what I’d learned from my experiences.

It began about two years ago, while pottering online and discovering what a powerful draw I felt to Starhawk's Reclaiming tradition of Wicca. Reclaiming focuses on combining Goddess spirituality with global and local political activism, and with its strong, happy network of people, an abundance of unique chants and songs, an ever-questioning attitude and gallant allegiance with the Wiccan Rede, I have yet to find anything at all I don't like about the Reclaiming tradition. I discovered that weeklong 'witchcamps' are run in several countries throughout the world, and I casually searched the European list, just in case, such is my love for the Spanish language, there might be one in Spain. When the camp in Gredos, Avila came up, I couldn't believe my luck. But nahh. Too far away. Too scary!

It wasn't until only a few short weeks ago, when gap year plans of going to the States to work before starting University fell through that I was in need of a rapid rethink. I revisited the Reclaiming Spain website in vague hopes of finding an upcoming event, and stumbled upon a most perfect 5 day retreat around the time of the solstice, with a ritual and herbal workshop. The catch? No one speaks a word of English. But that's ok! I speak A Level Spanish! Be coolly cool, Sophie!

HA. Anyways.

After multiple mad flaps trying to find various planes, trains (on which I was robbed on my first day) and elusive buses, I somehow miraculously managed to make it to the meeting point in the local town on time to be taken to the mountain camp. And what a beautiful place.... a little tipi haven shrouded in pine forests halfway up the mountain, with a crystal clear river gently trickling through. The first 24 hours I was there I was having less than a good time; there were fifteen of us, all of them were Spanish, most of them seemed to know each other and I began to feel increasingly like I was gate crashing a weekend jolly in the woods of Pagan friends.

The mental stamina required to think and speak in Spanish all day every day was gargantuan, and settling into this group was no easy task. But when workshop number 1 got under way I began to feel much more at home. We were divided into a women's workshop and a men’s workshop; the men disappeared up the mountainside and the women gathered in a circle to discuss our perceived life stage and what major changes were happening at this point in our lives, which I managed to cobble together in Spanish surprisingly successfully.

After this we went down to a particularly secluded spot by the river with a bowl and took turns to stand in the waterfall and cleanse ourselves of any negative crap that might be swirling around in our minds and bodies. I asked the Goddess to return to me in some way some of the money that was stolen from me (and that she did, about a week later, through a dozy cashier who gave me 47 Euros change for a salad paid for with a 10 euro note, and shooed me away before I could argue.) Following the cleansing, we partook in a 'feast of abundance', and set up the ritual space. There were separate altars for each Element in each quarter, all beautifully decorated. We began by raising a circle, and some of the young women adorned in greenery purified us individually with smudge sticks.

We invoked the Gods Helios and the Green Man, and the Goddesses Litha and Brigid, and invoked the Elements. We sang some traditional Reclaiming songs, and it wouldn't have been a proper Reclaiming ritual without the awesome Spiral dance that followed. We lit and jumped over a balefire and shared what summer means to us, and what we hope to nurture within ourselves (I went for safety on my travels) . What happened next was like a huge party; drumming and song and dance prevailed in the circle for many more hours, and I think the idea was to stay up all night and watch the Sun rise the next day but everyone hit the sack before then.

The next morning we welcomed the longest day with more drumming and singing. We then climbed to a clearing in the highest point in the camp, which had spectacular views, and completed the ritual with a dance around the maypole of abundance. I did wonder about the significance of having a maypole at Litha but figured that the symbolism of the merging of male and female energy at the height of power made just as much sense. The women dug a hole in the ground and decorated it with flowers, and the men carried the pole up the mountain and stuck it in the ground. We did a group meditation with more dance and drumming, followed by blessings and prayers. When dismissing the quarters at the end, I was surprised to find that they actually said 'Hail and farewell', and when I asked Morgaine the Priestess about this, she told me that she hadn't found an accurate Spanish translation for it and everyone was happy to use the English. But for 'so mote it be' they say 'que así sea'.

These people, I found, all want to go to England to visit the sacred sights and attend the rituals in Avebury, Stonehenge and Glastonbury, but I'll be frank, this ritual made the one of the Druids in Avebury seem quite dismal by comparison. I've attributed it to the party attitude the Spaniards have; the Spanish, like Pagans, will take any excuse for a festival, and I think this may be a major factor in the growth of Paganism in Spain today. Morgaine also told me that she thinks the land in Spain is very masculine, dry and dominated by mountains and pine forests, but loves visiting England because the land is so feminine, with hills and lakes, which gave me food for thought.

The next two days consisted of a workshop on the magical and medicinal uses of herbs which I really enjoyed, and had ensured that I'd learned as many of the Spanish names for herbs as I could before I went out there which proved invaluable. We had a theory lesson, then went down to the river to collect herbs, and I discovered that they had many of the same herbs as we do in Britain but the leaves were much thicker or a different shape, to adapt to the dry climate. I'd wondered why, on the first day, we'd collected so many mountains of St. John's wort from the mountainside only to discover in my very own Earth Pathways diary that this is exactly what one does at summer solstice to make oils and vinegars from it.

The next day we continued the workshop, the table strewn with all manner of herbs, fresh and dried, jars and oils and vinegars, and to my amusement, herbs that won't grow in the dry climate were purchased from Star Child in Glastonbury. I now have recipes and worksheets to translate, and never having had a full practical herbs lesson I was surprised how much I gained from this. On the final night, when I must've eaten something a bit dodgy and had an unhappy tummy, everyone leapt in to help; within 10 minutes I'd had Reiki done for me and a specially made mug of digestive tea shoved into my hands. All in all, once I got into it, a very enjoyable experience that I'd love to repeat someday (when my Spanish improves.)

One thing that was really reinforced in my mind during this witchcamp was the importance of intent in prayer and magick. These people wouldn't have fully understood my prayers and invocations, and I came to the conclusion that words are pretty much meaningless to Spirit. How could the people upstairs learn so many thousands of human languages? Many spells and invocations have rhyme with the intention of giving the conscious mind something to focus on while the subconscious gets to work. But something so simple as humming a single syllable is potentially equally as effective. I was reminded that if your spells were simply spoken words (which when in Spanish, when I wasn't fully awake, didn't mean much to me at all) , you wouldn’t get far at all. In our moments of silent prayer and meditation, I realized that while in different languages (not everyone had Spanish as their first language) , everyone's intent was heading in the same direction, which is what really makes all the difference.

When I returned home I began to research the background of what I’d seen and experienced; the information I’ve summarized here is of-course the briefest of outlines, so please feel free to suggest additions or amendments. In my research I discovered that there were a wealth of different deities beloved in the Iberian Peninsula, before the invasion of the Moors and then eventual Christianization, the goddesses mostly concerned with agriculture and the changing of the seasons, and the gods with weather, storms and war. With the invasion of the Roman Empire, it seems that many of the popular Iberian deities of the time were syncretised with those of the Roman pantheon who shared similar characteristics, for example the god of war, Cariociecus, overlaid by Mars, and the weather god Eacus blended into Jupiter. Most revered seem to be the goddess Ataegina, who ruled over Spring and seasonality, worshipped throughout Spain and Portugal, and Mari, a Basque goddess, also in charge of the weather, who lived in the mountains. Interestingly, it's the Basque region of Spain that seems to have retained its native culture and heritage the most, owing I think to the resilient and fiercely protective nature of the Basque peoples.

Ásastrú and Odinism are closely-linked Germanic-based Neopagan religions, following the teachings of Norse deities. These Pagan religions have been growing rapidly in Spain in the last 30 years, helped by the creation of the "Círculo Odinista Europeo" in 1981, an organization dedicated to the growth of Odinism in Spain and the rest of Europe. In 2007, the Spanish government recognized it as an official religion, and thus was able to perform 'legally binding civil ceremonies.' It has been the fourth Odinist/Asatru religious organization to be recognized with official status in the world, after Iceland, Norway and Denmark.

On December 23, 2007 the first legal Pagan wedding in Spain in 1, 500 years took place on the beach of Vilanova, Barcelona. Jordi and Francesca, members of Confession Odin-Asatru, united their lives under the Rite Odinist Continental led by Ernust, Godi of the COE. Pagans of all faiths in Spain, as well as members of the Pagan Federation attended the ceremony.

While I was at the witchcamp, I found two paths were followed side by side; the Reclaiming tradition of Wicca, with which I'm very familiar, and El Camino Rojo, which translates as 'the path of the red people', or more simply, 'the Red Road', an Iberian tradition of Native American origin. When I asked Vicente, the local tradition leader, what the differences were between El Camino Rojo and Shamanism, he replied adamantly that Shamanism was a Siberian word and that Native American belief and practices were very much different. The workshops he runs are in honor of the ancestors of the world and of the Father Sun and Sky and the Mother Earth, and include learning Native American invocations, songs and chants, making tobacco offerings, instruction of the use of sacred and medicinal plants, purification of the body and spirit in sweat lodges and the use of drumming for worship and to induce trance state. I admired his steadfast dedication to keeping alive the memory and teachings of the ancestors of the Iberian Peninsula.

As aforementioned, there isn't a huge amount for Pagans to do in Spain, I was told, and they all want to visit the sacred sites of England, as Morgaine called it, the 'Land of the Goddess.' But twice annually there is a Goddess conference in Madrid, founded by members of the tradition of Avalon and of Reclaiming. It's a four day event of songs, workshops and presentations with the aim, according to the website, of regaining lost knowledge of female deities, the cults and cultures associated with them, and facilitating that knowledge to Spanish and International society; to establish a virtual and physical sacred space to teach and practice together; and to work to promote and defend the rights and dignity of women and men through the visualization of a model of Divine Feminine denied for over three thousand years; working for the health of the planet as a physical manifestation of Divinity, and for multiculturalism and diversity, through work with goddesses from many times and places.

It's a great shame I missed this latest conference in July during my stay in Spain, as when I look through the pictures that come back I see faces filled with joy and the love and light of the Goddess. May this love continue to spread, and the work done by all the melissas, priests, priestesses and contributors bear fruit in the growth of this great phenomenon in Iberia, and throughout the world.

---

Footnotes:
www.wikipedia.org
www.reclaimingspain.org
www.conferenciadeladiosa.es

[Traveling in] Indigenous Ecuador (2010 - first published on Witchvox.com)

When I began this journey, I set out with the intention of going to South America to observe the lives of the native peoples, compare it to my practices of modern-day Paganism and write a merry little essay about it. While on the trip, the world I found myself immersed in was a very different story; around me people led lives in extreme poverty, but there was also a spirit of unity, a hard-working attitude, and dignity. There was racism and exploitation against the native people, but when I uncovered the ancient roots of these peoples’ ancestry, I was astounded to discover just how like modern Paganism their lives and worlds were.

In summer 2009, my A Level (that’s junior year of High School for readers over the pond) Spanish teacher advertised a charity trip to Ecuador, and to raise money to fund a building project in a school in Quito, the capital city. It looked like a good laugh so I went along to the interview session and signed up. When accepted into the group, we were told that fundraising would be a lot of hard work and that we would need to be committed to the project, but when we had explained to us the activities we would be doing, the places we would see, and the attraction of a few days in the Galápagos Islands at the end, I enthusiastically agreed that it would be worth the effort.

From the autumn through to summer 2010 we embarked on fundraising projects including a barn dance, various gigs and sales, car washing, letting out the college car park during the Christmas shopping period, and a skydive. Along with weekly meetings, these activities amounted to the equivalent of the time and effort of another academic subject alongside my A Levels, which at times was tiring and frustrating and made me consider packing the whole thing in and letting someone else have my place on the trip. Thankfully, the hard work was worth it in the end, and when July rolled around we’d exceeded our fundraising target and were able to put extra money towards fixing other parts of the school.

On 14th July, our group of twenty-one students aged seventeen to nineteen and five teachers left very early in the morning for our flight from London Heathrow to Madrid, then onto Quito. When we landed in the city, my initial reaction was that it looked as though we’d landed in the middle of an enormous refugee camp; on the bus to our hostel, I observed that most of the buildings were falling apart and in parts it was barely a step up from a shanty town. There were garbage piles in the streets, countless stray dogs, and I saw an Indian family dressed in bin bags rifling through the rubbish.

In my first few days I made a number of geographical observations; Quito is the world’s second highest capital city, and thus is so high up in the Andes, it’s often difficult to breathe, and even going up a flight of stairs can be a breath-taking task. Because we were up in the clouds, the clouds virtually dictated the weather, which chopped and changed very quickly; while it was usually warm during the day, we shivered by night.

In Ecuador, as anywhere else on the equator, the Sun rises at 6am and sets at 6pm on the dot, year round, with little change in temperature apart from a rainy season. At first I thought this must be quite a convenient way to live, until I realised that they went without the great seasonal variations I’m used to in the UK. It made me appreciate all the more our Wheel of the Year and how different each sabbat is from the last.

When we arrived at the battered, underfunded school, we set about painting the walls, making mosaics and patching the place up. Many of the children came to help us, during their holidays, without a grumble and always brandishing bright, cheeky grins. Some local men began, with admirable speed, to assemble a third storey on top of the IT block building for which we had raised money. Rosa, the head teacher, who for the sake of the children had stayed in her post long beyond retiring age, goes to the poor side of the valley every summer and knocks on peoples’ doors, asking them to send their children to school in September rather than to work. The computers, and the computer block therefore, being a vital aid to luring children to school, were of utmost importance.

One afternoon, we went to the poor side of the valley to see the conditions in which some of the students live. The further up the mountain we climbed the poorer the families were, and our first stop was a corrugated tin shack held down by concrete blocks. As we stepped over the threshold, the mother apologized for the poverty her family lived in, and we were informed that two adults and twenty children lived in this humble abode. In another girl’s corrugated tin dwelling, she appeared from the ladder upstairs sporting two one-week old kittens of which she was very proud.

In no time, attracted by such a large swarm of white people, kids began to emerge from all over the neighbourhood, and anytime anyone whipped out a camera, they huddled in a frantic scrum to be in the picture and grinned from ear to ear. They had only a football between them, but they were happy. This, I think, is what I truly admired about the Ecuadorian people; they live for the moment, grab any opportunity, and they make anything out of whatever they’ve got, and thus create a society in which nothing goes to waste.

During our stay, we did all the touristy things; sitting on the equator line (which is apparently 240 metres away from the official line painted on the ground) , going shopping in the famous Indian market in Otavalo, and climbing mountains and volcanoes. On one occasion we went down into the Pululahua crater, and imploded volcano, which was a pleasant and scenic saunter down, but a very grueling climb going back up. While I puffed and wheezed and felt as though my legs were going to give out, I was overtaken by an old, one-legged man on crutches, accompanied but not assisted by a younger woman, which gave me an embarrassed last spurt of energy. As this old soul hobbled lithely up the mountain path, I thought to myself, if he can do it, then why not me, in my clearly unfit but at least complete body?

After this we visited the ‘Temple of the Sun’, a nearby Inca museum. The guide showed us a painting that represented everything that was sacred to the Inca people; Pachamama, which was Mother Earth, a solar god, a lunar goddess, and respect and reverence of the four elements of Fire, Water, Air and Earth, he explained casually. While other members of the group looked around, twiddling their thumbs in mild boredom, I was aghast. As a Pagan, I cringed to be at all associated with the group; when the guide explained that Inca society was predominantly matriarchal, many of the boys grumbled and protested, some of the girls giggled endlessly at a fertility relief piece of a woman with her legs wide open, and almost everyone rolled their eyes at the mention of a goddess and spirits.

We were then taken into a room full of dream catchers and were given an aromatherapy session with natural oils and native music. While others slouched and checked their watches, I was sitting bolt upright, grounded and centred, grateful for the first meditation I’d had for some time. Outside, we also took part in a solar fire ritual, while the priest, in full Inca costume, praised the solar god in the Quechua language. It was all simply so Pagan that it hurt. Being towards the end of July, I was grateful to have my Lughnasad celebration after all!

On our last day of work at the school, we gathered in a classroom for lunch cooked by local parents followed by thank you speeches from our group leader and from the school’s head teacher. They handed out multiple gifts to each of us and thanked us repeatedly for our time and service to the school, which for me embodied the true hospitality of the Ecuadorian people.

In our outings in town and country, I made a variety of other cultural and linguistic observations; I found that a strong nuclear family is highly prized, and there were posters and paintings all over the capital city depicting the ideal, loving family, and in the classrooms in the school, I found a list of what every child has a right to in life, and a poster of a sunflower, with a virtue every child should learn printed on each petal. I believe that these sorts of basic teachings would be a good kick-start in life for kids who might otherwise be led astray.

Catholicism in Ecuador, as in most other South American countries, has a big impact on society – most shops are shut on a Sunday, and the architecture and views from the Basilica del Voto Nacional Cathedral in Quito is most impressive. In a country where the average person has so little to their name, I found that everything is held together with rust and Christian faith, although I found, particularly among the native peoples, that Catholicism is merely a veneer for older practices, and that the two types of faith are often fervently combined.

Another observation that I deem to be a positive one, was the lack of health and safety, and therefore the regulations and horrendous amounts of red tape that comes with it in more developed countries, and people are rightly left to use common sense as a guide in life. Back home, I work in a convenience store, which throws away, every day, and entire shopping trolley full of fresh food that could feed a family for a week. The reason? EU food regulations deem the food to be a few hours out of date and therefore a hazard. In Ecuadorian fruit and veg stalls, I purchased at an extremely low price, battered- looking fruit that would have been thrown away several days before by British standards, but it was delicious, and perfectly safe. (Subsequently, coming home to continue this reckless waste at work was very difficult.)

Some negative things I discovered were maltreatment of the poor, and racism against the indigenous populations; on billboards on the motorways it was always white people or those of Hispanic origin, and the same again for high-class jobs in say, banking. Also, almost any soft or fizzy drink you could buy, and even some brands of water, was a product of the Coca-Cola Company – the impact of globalisation makes it easy to observe how easily the poor can be taken advantage of in these countries. Most food products were imported from the US, and whilst conversing with the locals in the best Spanish I could cobble together, I found that much of the vocabulary had been Americanized in ridiculous ways, and was not recognizably proper Spanish.

In the Galápagos Islands, prices of everyday things were double those of the mainland, but it was worth it – the incredible variety of flora and fauna that the islands boast really are worth the hype. On Santa Cruz, an island with a roughly 10 mile radius, sports the largest number of eco-systems I’ve ever seen in one place; to my eye there was a savannah-like landscape in the north with only cacti and some very dry-looking trees, a rainforest a couple of miles to the south, then beautiful, white sandy beaches, and the tourist town of Puerto Ayora (although the biologist on our trip may well have hastily corrected me with great agitation, the precise nature of these different habitats.)

On a small island we visited called Floreana, 100 or so people live a very simple lifestyle; they get two hours of running water a day, they only eat what they’ve grown and reared on the island, and the only school has eighteen pupils – yet they voluntarily chose to live there and they enjoy the peace and quiet it provides. Perhaps we can learn from them to stop and think every once in a while, and contemplate what we have and slow down our busy lives a bit. During my stay on the islands, everything, from the prickly pear cacti, the famous giant tortoises, Darwin’s finches, the lovable marine iguanas and comical blue-footed booby birds, made me stand back and gaze in wonder at the beauty and bounty of what the Goddess can provide.

On the journey back home, four successive flights crossing eight time zones was very unpleasant, and they took place across the 1st, 2nd and 3rd of August, so Lughnasad kinda didn’t happen, apart from some meagre prayers I managed to squeeze in before we left.
When I finally made it home, I was greeted by a bedroom so empty that it looked as though we’d just moved in; while I’d been away my mum had thrown out about two thirds of my belongings because ‘it needed a clearout’. To add to the dismay, when I tried to upload the almost 900 pictures and videos I’d taken on the trip, a paranoid firewall on my computer decided to delete everything on the spot, before they’d even made it onto the hard-drive, much to my horror.

When I was awake enough, I attempted a full Lughnasad ritual, but found it difficult to give thanks for what I had when I’d lost so much in such a short space of time. But then I remembered the enormous family that lived in a tin shack, the children with few to no possessions but were always smiling, the school that ran with such limited funds, and asked myself why I was crying over some thrown away knick-knacks and some deleted photos. So then, mid-ritual, I turned it all around; on our last night in Ecuador, we’d all gone round the room sharing what had been our best experiences and what we’d learned from the trip. In true Pagan style, I incorporated into my ritual what I’d ‘reaped’ from the experience, and decided that it wasn’t such a bad way to celebrate the harvest after all.

Sophie Horrocks, Southeast England.

(N.B. I later got most of my photos back –yay! -- through a recovery from a camera shop, and was better able to share my experiences with everyone.)

In Defence of the Masculine (2010 - first published on Witchvox.com)

Why is it that far fewer men than women are attracted to Paganism, and specifically in Wicca far fewer still? Why do covens that celebrate and practice a religion that promotes a balanced gender polarity often aim but struggle to have equal numbers of male and female members? Does the idea of dancing round in a circle holding hands fill the average male with horror? Perhaps so, but there is a reason that many men can and do combine ‘normal’, socially accepted male hobbies with a spiritual lifestyle.

I’ve never been one for hyper-feminism, despite being female myself. I spent my childhood and adolescence in an expensive, all-girls school, where it was rammed down our throats every single day for nine years that there was this aching need for us to ‘break through the glass ceiling, and surpass men in business!’ Their level of enthusiasm was often slightly hysterical. Expectations of us were high, and our teachers had seemingly been trained to set us on a golden path, at the end of which we could spend our careers running board meetings and sniggering down at our inferior male employees. On many occasions I wondered what on Earth they were doing, seeing as the idea of becoming a generic ‘businesswoman’ filled me with dread, and nor did I ever have any desire to ‘surpass men’. Quite the opposite, as I’ve always had the impression that nowadays men and women by law are to be given equal opportunities in the world of work, and a number of people I’ve spoken to on the subject inform me that female friends and relatives indeed run their own businesses, having put in the same amount of effort as their male peers, without making a hullabaloo out of it.

I fear that overemphasis on the Goddess may make many males shy away from the Craft and make them feel unwelcome. Far more frequently do I find poems and passages written about the Goddess than the God, so I usually try to write a God equivalent to keep the balance. I feel that this is of great importance; else the balance of male and female energies that make up the Universe and make one of the core tenets of Wicca and many other Pagan religions is compromised.

At Beltane, Pagan couples all over the world choose this time to perform handfastings, the Pagan equivalent of a wedding, in which the couple declare their love for one another and vow to care for each other with the blessing of the Gods. Of-course, these couples need not always be a man and a woman; two women or two men may also handfast, and this I believe does not contradict gender balance. For in every man there are feminine qualities, and in every woman, male qualities, and so a different kind of balance is created in gay and lesbian couples, but nonetheless still as valid and powerful.

A prevailing attitude among many males (but not all) is that Pagan religions appear to be fluffy, over-sentimental, and well… downright girly. Most girls my age, teenagers on the brink of adulthood, would not be caught dead doing what I do; the majority of my female peers would much rather dress themselves up in a uniform of mass-produced clothes, splatter their faces in makeup and march into the centre of town in droves at weekends to guzzle as much alcohol as they can in the least amount of time until they vomit. This behaviour I don’t see at all as feminine, or indeed masculine; I view it as a sea of identical, made-up faces, wearing similar clothes and jewellery, following one another and living in their body as though it were a plastic shell, used to move them from one place to another and to withstand regular binges of alcohol, nicotine and sleep deprivation.

These girls wouldn’t dream of digging their carefully manicured hands into cool, freshly tilled soil, feeling the Earth’s pulse below them. They would not consider carefully cultivating a vegetable garden when processed food can be literally grabbed for a small price on the go. Nor would they perform binding magick for example to prevent the spread of a rumour, when they could much more easily spread an equally acidic rumour themselves in response. Yes, these girls are ‘girly’, but I do not deem them ‘feminine’. Feminine energy, in comparison, I feel is distinctly masculine by our society’s standards. Real women, in my opinion, are those who are not afraid to connect with the Earth, those who have the courage and will to make a stand for what they believe; supposedly ‘masculine’ qualities. No, boys, Paganism is not remotely ‘girly’.

Neither is it just for ‘gay men’, who are attracted to the Craft often because of the representation of the Horned God as a wild, free, sexual consort rather than the domineering, strict father as represented in many monotheistic religions; or perhaps due to the aspects of Paganism that involve theatre, dance, and celebration of life, as an escape from the expected hobbies of playing football and videogames or being encouraged to hunt down scantily clad girls.

In the Dianic tradition of Wicca, the Goddess is revered with little mention of the God at all. There are a number of good reasons that this tradition exists and that it is so popular, and I understand why many women join. Perhaps it is to escape a lifetime of male oppression; centuries of patriarchal religions, a domineering father, unpleasant brothers, abusive husbands – but don’t forget that men, too, are often victims of domestic violence. Many lesbian women find solace in a vagina-friendly community where they are loved and appreciated for being female by many similar-minded women. It is all very well to venerate our Mother the Earth, as after all, She provides us with bountiful gifts, the trees, the meadows and the streams, and gives us a home; but where would we be without our Father the Sun?

Even if you do not attribute the Moon and the Earth as a female energy and the Sun and sky as male, whichever way you look at it, there are masculine and feminine energies intertwining all the time. In the past, the Horned God was the Lord of the Hunt – communities would have starved without the keenness and cunning of the male eye to hunt prey. The communities would too have starved without the craftsmanship and skill of the women, but if the Goddess has no male consort, how can the Earth be replenished with new life in the spring?

I am grateful to have grown up in a society where gender discrimination is minimal, but I also know of a many great males who feel oppressed for whatever reason. I personally despise gender stereotyping, and I believe that there is a lot of pressure on boys to be sporty/competitive/to lead the family. Many of those who are not aware that it is open to them would greatly benefit from a balanced, Earth –based lifestyle. I cringe at the prospect of sounding like the Proselytising Pennys of many other religions, so I shall state here that I am fully aware that Paganism is not for everyone. However, I don’t believe that the idea of practising a Pagan religion should be discarded on the grounds of gender; too often is its content perceived as ‘not masculine’ – on the contrary, the role of the Priest as the Horned God I couldn’t perceive as anything other than the raw energy of men.

I have a great admiration for the men, particularly boys and younger men who break the trend and take the leap into any spirituality that suits their beliefs far more than the ‘masculine’ mould of expected interests and beliefs which is laid out for them. I cherish the few rituals that I find which are written solely for males; I recently found a Litha ritual which was designed to coincide with Father’s Day, and it instructed all the males to dress as the horned God and thank the male members of the family for all their work, love and support. What a fantastic way for fathers and sons to bond in a spiritual way which is so frequently overlooked in favour of female figures in Wicca.

So yes, I believe there is a place for any male alongside females in Paganism, and while ‘the love for the Goddess I hold deep inside’, I too love and revere my God.

Sophie Horrocks, Southeast England.

The left-behinds (2010)

The left-behinds

I wake up on a beautiful spring morning,

My head heavy from a thousand sleepless nights.

The shaft of sunlight blinds me

As I squint into the wakefulness of a new day.

The Outside seems more beautiful than usual;

What a glorious day for early in April.

From where I lay I can hear the birds singing,

And I crawl to the spot where the Sun warms my face.

I lay there for several minutes,

Eyes shut, pretending that I’m a Freeman.

I then scramble to my feet

And peer out of the narrow window.

My face is met with a warm, soft breeze,

Caressing my smooth skin.

 

Down below, the Freemen frolic in the meadows,

Enjoying the spring sunshine.

Occasionally they glance up at the left-behinds,

Usually to jeer, and mock and laugh,

So for this reason I am grateful to be separated from them.

A young Freeman couple lie on the lawn,

Nearer to us than Freemen usually go and stay.

They hold hands basking in the Sun.

They lay in each other’s arms without a care in the world.

I too want to enjoy the Sun,

But the bars on my window prevent me from being in direct sunlight.

I stick my arm out,

Reach out as far as the bars will let me,

Right to my shoulder.

But still I cannot reach direct sunlight.

The Sun is hiding behind my building.

The air is warm and light and still filters into my cell.

Never mind, I shall be grateful for what I have.

 

I leave the window and approach the wall to my right.

“Comrade, comrade!” I shout,

Banging my fist against the concrete.

“Have you seen what a beautiful day it is in the Outside today!”

“No, I hadn’t noticed!” the boy shouts back.

“I thought it was a day like any other.

I’ve been enjoying this marvellous book by Dickens.

Aren’t the older works the best?”

“Can’t say I’m a fan of Dickens myself,” I reply,

Slightly dismayed.

I approach the wall on my left.

“Comrade, have you seen what a beautiful day it is in the Outside today!”

There is no reply.

“Comrade! Are you ok?”

Still no reply.

I rummage in my trunk for the release book.

I scan the hundreds of numbers and dates printed in rows and columns.

I remember her number and find her,

The girl to the left of me.

Her release date was yesterday.

The fourth release this week.

 

“Sophie! Sophie!”

I clamber to my feet and go to the window.

My friend stands beneath the window,

Looking up at me with a silly smile.

“How are you today?”

“Well, I was just commenting on what a beautiful day it is in the Outside today.”

“Oh, same as usual really. You know what they say,

The grass is always greener on the other side.”

“Erm, there’s no grass in my cell at all.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean.”

“Not really.”

“Oh,” he replies solemnly. “Well enjoy the sunshine then.”

“I can’t reach it but I can feel the warmth,

And the light comes in here.”

“Ah well, that’s something then.”

My friend has been a Freeman since November.

I do think the fresh air has gone to his head rather.

“Honestly Sophie, you’ve not been yourself lately,”

He looks up at me and says,

A melancholy tone in his voice.

“It’s just these four walls,

They get to me sometimes.

Oh did you know,

The girl to my left has been released.”

“Oh, really?” he replies without interest. “Someone will replace her next year.”

“She was in the release book, did you not see?”

“I don’t really look at the release book.”

Freemen never do.

I’m pretty sure they throw their books out upon release.

 

“Any stories from your end?” I ask him.

“Ooh yeah,” he replies,

A beam spreading across his face.

“There was this party,

And this one girl got so drunk that she fell over and rolled all the way down the hill and made a right tit of herself,”

He says, doubled in fits of laughter.

“It was so funny,

We all just stood there and laughed at her.”

“Oh,” I reply.

“We don’t have alcohol in the Children’s institute.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” he replies,

The smile going from his face.

“I don’t know if you knew this,” I tell him,

“But some people escaped from here the other night to join the Freemen.

Of-course it was before their release date.

It turns out they’ve been sneaking out into the night somehow,

And returning to their cells in the dawn.

I think they thought they could get away with it ‘cause they look like Freemen,

And they talk like them and act like them.

In fact, the Freemen would probably never have known the difference,

That is until the Police got to those people.

I guess they just wanted to be with their friends.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he replies shiftily.

“They’re gone now, those people,

They’re not in Freeman’s land, are they,

They’re not here either.

They’re just gone, taken away.”

“Yeah. Well I wouldn’t worry about it to be honest.

Look, I don’t understand why you get so upset about these things,”

He says, shrugging his shoulders.

“You’re not upset, are you buddy!” he shouts up to my right.

“Dickens and I are happy!” comes the sing-song voice from the cell to my right.

“You see, Sophie,” my Freeman friend says to me,

Rolling his eyes impatiently.

“Everyone waits the same for release, it’s no big deal.

When’s your release date again?”

“29^th May,” I reply,

The date seared into my mind,

From months of sitting and glaring at it,

The print fading in my tattered release book.

“Oh that’s soon enough then,

You’ll be out here with us,” he replies with a childish grin.

“You know, posters have started going up around the Children’s institute,”

I tell him.

“Posters?” he says, puzzled.

“Election posters.”

“Oh right, yeah. The election campaign’s been getting underway out here as well. Not sure when it is.”

“May 6^th. You should know,

Only Freemen can vote.”

“Sor-ry, I didn’t know.

I’m not into all this political stuff. It’s boring really.”

“I don’t know why there are posters here to be honest.

Perhaps they’re trying to trick us into thinking we’re equal with Freemen,”

I say with a chuckle.

 

So my thoughts turn again to 6^th May,

A day where there will be much feasting and merrymaking,

But also a day by which all the land has gathered to discuss topics of great importance,

The future of the land,

Even of the world.

A day when the people will go to the polls and have their say

And make their voices heard.

Like all meetings, gatherings, parties, discussions,

Elections and decisions made of any importance,

Only Freemen are invited.

For it is only the Freemen who possess the capability to make decisions,

To think and feel and have opinions and make choices.

This day, which occurs only once every five years,

Will be three weeks shy of my release date.

The opinions of the left-behinds are not valid.
We are the minors,

The ‘underage’,

The Under an Age that someone somewhere has picked.

We are here because we are unintelligent compared to the Freemen.

We are incapable of carrying the responsibilities of the Freemen.

Our voices are muted behind concrete walls.

“Why don’t you go and make your voice heard,”

I call down to my friend,

“Make a stand for our generation.”

We are, after all,

My Freeman friend and I,

 Supposedly of the same age and maturity.

“Nah, can’t be arsed,” he calls back.

“Elections and meetings and discussions bore me.

I’d rather drink and run in the meadows.”

Tears well up in my eyes as a shooting pain runs through my hand.

I realise I’ve been gripping the bars too tightly,

And a jagged edge at the base of the window has cut the palm of my hand.

“You okay?” he calls up again.

“Yup,” I reply, fighting back tears. “I’ve just cut my hand.”

The bars were exceptionally cold, I notice.

“Oh crap!” comes the cry from down below.

Neither of us had noticed the rain clouds roll in.

Huge raindrops begin to beat down from the sky.

“Right, I’ve gotta run. Hope stuff gets better for you,” he says,

Shielding his head and dashing back down the slope to the meadow.

 

The rain picks up.

I stand by the window and look out at the startled Freemen

Dashing across the meadow towards the buildings,

Baffled that heavy rain could come so quickly from nowhere

On what was such a beautiful April morning.

Ah well, I think.

I’m already sheltered.

 

My thoughts move from the May elections to the horror of that vague end-of-August deadline,

The time when the young Freemen will be shooed from the meadows,

To make way for the next batch below us.

By the end of August,

All those imprisoned will have been freed.

But at the end of August,

The young Freemen will go their separate ways,

And they will no longer live in the meadows of the Freeman’s land.

I knew all along that what my Freeman friend had said was false.

I knew that everyone does not wait the same for release,

But I agreed with him lest he too tells me I’m crazy.

Everyone in the Children’s institute waits from the beginning of September.

My friend was released after just two months,

Ahead of most of his friends.

I have watched my friends being released into the Freeman’s land one by one.

I have watched important discussions and events come and go without me,

From the window of my cell.

I have watched parties and meetings come and go,

And I will watch the greatest election of the land come and go.

This I take without a fuss because it is my place in this cell in the Children’s institute.

I have already waited five months longer than my Freeman friend,

That’s seven months from the start-date and still counting,

Watching from my window with a smile as the clock ticks and the days come and go.

On the day of my release,

Some of us will have had nearly a year together

In the meadows of the Freeman’s land.

Comrade-to-the-right and I will be lucky to get three months before the time to leave.

But as I gaze out of my window,

And watch the Freemen furthest from their buildings get drenched,

I sigh,

Back away and sit against the concrete wall.

It could always be worse.

 

 

Sophie Horrocks

6^th April 2010