The theme “The Longest Night” immediately suggested midwinter to me, and we now know that Stonehenge was aligned for midwinter, presumably to celebrate the rebirth of the earth after the longest night of the year. What might those ceremonies have been like? Archaeologists are finding more and more interesting evidence. We still have to join the dots with our imagination.
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THE LONGEST NIGHT
I can’t tell the difference between opening my eyes and closing them. I watch, but I cannot see. Dense clouds loomed over us as we gathered at dusk. We prayed so hard that they would roll over us. There was no rain, but no moon either.
I feel the stone that is my locus for the night. It is smooth, ice-cold and resonant with the spirits of our faithful ancestors who hewed it and hauled it to this special place. A rumble of snores reminds me how many souls have come here, depending on the sunrise. Their dying woodsmoke wafts into my nostrils, taunting me. There is no fire for the watchers. Nothing must distract from the pure light of dawn. Many a long year have I studied our rituals so that I would be prepared to lead this one. My horn is ready, but the daybreak will be a long time coming.
I stare at the horizon that is not there. A wolf howls. My throat tightens and my flesh tingles under my furs. A wolf feels what a human cannot and I strain my eyes to scan for the break in the cloud. It’s there to the south! A watery moon reaches through mist to cast a glow. Oh, how we have longed for a clear-skied dawn this midwinter, after so many damp, grey ones. As the clouds are chased away by the grace of the gods, the air chills. The plains will soon be skimmed with glittering ice.
The wolf has disturbed the animals. They low and bleat mournfully. Perhaps they know their fate. Tomorrow their blood will be sprayed on the faithful. Their fresh flesh will be roasted and gorged, washed down with holy ale. We will dance ourselves into a frenzy, grateful that the longest night has come and gone.
The moonshine is strengthening, enough for the stones to cast shadows on the grass. I can see two bright orbs in the distance. An animal, perhaps a hungry one, is looking at me. It pads closer. I make out the shape of a bear. It should be in its winter sleep. It is carrying a cub, born too early. Closer she comes, but I dare not shout for help. To disturb the night before the ceremony would be a heresy deserving of a worse fate than a bear could inflict. There are other holy ones watching for the dawn, melding with the menhirs. Which of us will she choose? If we stay still enough, perhaps she will pass by. She cannot hunt and move a cub at the same time.
I pray, of course. I pray for my own wretched existence, but also for hers. She must be desperate to leave her den and approach humans. She can smell my fear and starts to trot towards me. My heart pounds. I expect her to shred me with her long, sharp claws. My eyes have to stay open. I am still a watcher. She stops, drops the cub near my feet and runs off to claim a goat from one of the flimsy pens on the outskirts of the camp. The commotion causes the family to stir and wail about their loss, but others will give them food tomorrow.
The cub has not moved, and I wonder if it is dead. Will the bear return for it when she has eaten the goat? Dare I pick it up? The soft fur is cold to my touch, but there is a hint of breath. Dear god of the new year, what does this mean? I scoop it up and snuggle it under my furs, which are bearskin. Did the mother mistake me for a sister? I have no fear of falling asleep now. Blood throbs from my hooded head to my booted toes. The cub is warming up. Is it wise to keep it alive? How will I feed it? What could I do with it when it is grown? I should let the cold claim it, but I can’t. It is a sign. The pulse of the cub keeps me vigilant, alive to the night.
At last, a hint of silver. I gulp a huge breath, pick up my horn and blow. It lets out a blaring wail, a sound that wakes. Now, all the priests and priestesses are beating their drums. As the faithful hurry towards the henge, I lift the bear cub from my furs and hold it aloft to the breaking dawn and the rising sun.
The crowds gasp in awe of this rarest of midwinter mornings. The sun is creeping through the stones, perfectly aligned. The new life of the father of all the gods, held up by the Chief Elder for all to see. Thousands of voices chant songs of joy. The apprentice priests start to line up the sacrifices that pilgrims have brought: horses, cattle, pigs, goats, even chickens from the poorest of worshippers. Soon, the circle will stink of blood. I should bless my knife. The other holy ones have their knives and cups ready. They are muttering. Eventually, one asks: “Is it to go first, or last?”
They look at me. I stare back, knowing what they expect of me. I am the mother of my people, and I should set an example. Sometimes, royal parents sacrifice their children to ensure a prosperous new year. The more it hurts the giver, the more the victim has been cherished, the more powerful the magic. I perform ritual prayer, communing with the god that I married when a child. I fear his cruelty and greed.
I open my eyes again. I have made enough sacrifices in my life to be as powerful as this. I hold the cub up again and bellow, “This rare gift from the god of gods, entrusted to me tonight, is an icon of our people. We will nurture him. Our gods command it.”
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Photo: Interior of neolithic monument on Guernsey, Channel Islands.
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This piece was first published in 2024 in SLACK 5, a publication from Marlow Writers Society.
