Merry Maidens

I posted the poem a couple of weeks back, now here is the prose version.

The Voice of the Stones

Alistair Penrose parked in a convenient pull in on his way to Lamorna. He left his car and walked a little way in the direction of Boleigh knowing that somewhere here was a path. When he found it he looked up the hill and could see what he was seeking just below the horizon – the Merry Maidens. He climbed the stile and started up the hill taking deep breaths, smelling the salt, the ozone and the heady coconut scent of the ever present gorse. As he walked he thought about the stone circle, the Cornish name was ‘Dawns Meyn’, which probably meant ‘dance of stones’ ‘dons meyn’, or sacred stones ‘zans meyn’ – no one really knew for sure.

An archaeologist with a lifelong interest in neolithic Britain Alistair was familiar with the many stone circles to be found across the length and breadth of Britain, but the Merry Maidens seemed more special than most, at least to himself. There was something about this particular circle of stones that kept calling him back. As always the closer he got the quicker he walked, as if being drawn onward by the stones. He was not quite sure why, but every time he came back here the experience was quite different. The other thing that struck him was that whenever he came up the hill towards the stones he always got the feeling that he was being watched, even though there was no one to be seen for miles around.

As always he walked around the circle and came into it through the gap that was commonly thought of as the entrance. He had done this so many times now that it was almost ritualistic.
‘Poor souls’ a deep ethereal voice intoned.
Alistair turned to see who had spoken, but there was no one, the field was deserted apart from himself and the stones. ‘Get a grip man’ he thought ‘you’re letting your imagination run away with you’. Turning back to the stones he started the other part of his, by now, ritualistic tradition, pacing the circumference of the nineteen stones arranged in a perfect circle. He was about to make some notes of his thoughts
‘They have a tragic history you know.’
The voice again, and no one in sight, it seemed to emanate from the land itself, and to insinuate itself directly into his head. His pen froze above his notebook ‘Am I going mad’ he thought ‘there must be some rational explanation’.
‘A terrible blight’ the voice continued ‘shall I tell you their story?’
Alistair’s mind considered the possible explanations, a hidden speaker, a prankster of some sort. His scientific mind completely unwilling to give any credence to the more fantastical/paranormal possibilities.

However, curiosity took the uppermost in his mind. Feeling foolish for addressing no one but the stones he called out
‘Alright, tell me your story. Let me see if it matches the version of the story I know.’
There were several moments of silence, the only sounds being the ever present cry of gulls and the waves crashing against the distant cliffs. Alistair was just about to write the experience off to an over active imagination when the voice spoke again
‘Very well seeker of knowledge. The stones rarely share their secrets, so listen very closely.’

Alistair felt that the air seemed to thicken, and a strange heaviness descend upon him. He sank to the ground and sat with his back against one of the cold granite pillars as the voice began its story.
‘Many ages ago when the veil between the worlds was so much thinner than now the village of Boleigh was built on this land. The people of the village were farmers, fishermen, craftsmen, simple folk really. Their lives were lived according to the rhythms of the earth and sea, in harmony with the land. There were nineteen young women in. the village, all friends since childhood. They were known throughout the locality both for their beauty and their voices. They would meet in the fields on summer evenings to sing, their melodies carried far afield on the summer breezes. Now two brothers, Kerwyn and Talan, lived nearby, Kerwyn was skilled with the pipes and Talan with a skin drum somewhat akin to the Irish Bodhran. Many a local festival was brightened and enraptured with their musical skills, music which seemed to possess a magic all of its own.’ There was a pause, as if the speaker was taking breath.

Then the voice came back to continue its story.
‘It was rumoured that the boys were not of this world. The tale that was told was that their mother had been a selkie – a seal woman who could shed her skin and walk on land. The truth of all that is lost in the mists of time, and may just have been a matter of local gossip. Whatever the truth there was no denying that their music was not of this world. Fate always plays a hand in such matters, and it was inevitable that the maidens and the brothers should meet. At first it was innocent enough, but with time they were drawn to each other, shared glances at the market, and brief conversations after church. Naturally the attraction grew through the power of the music in combination with the flush of young love. It came to pass that the maidens would sneak out to meet the brothers in secret. Together they would make music, music that seemed to call upon something ancient and primal. The brothers played, the maidens sang and danced, their feet barely touching the ground. The music and dance spoke of wild forgotten places, places drawn from long inhibited parts of the brain.’

Again there was a pause, as if the voice was trying to remember the story.
‘For a time all was well, but as the seasons turned a deep malaise crossed the land, crops withered, fish became scarce in the waters, and a chill wind blew even on the warmest days. The people of the village grew fearful and there were tales whispered of witchcraft, curses, and divine punishment. The Boleigh elders came together in council in an attempt discover the source of their misfortune. It was now that one of the elderly women spoke of seeing strange lights in the fields, and of hearing unearthly music on the wind. Naturally suspicion fell on the nineteen maidens and the two musicians. The villagers, as ever, were driven by superstition and fear and decided to take action. On Midsummer Eve when the veil between worlds is at its thinnest the elders lay in wait near the field where the youngsters gathered. As the sun sank below the horizon and set the sky aflame the maidens and the brothers arrived. Kerwyn and Talan began to play their music, more haunting and beautiful than ever before. The maidens sang and danced, although their feet touched the ground so briefly that they could have been flying.’

‘But this night there was something very different. The beautiful haunting music reached a fever pitch, the air itself seemed to shimmer and twist to its rhythms. The dancers seemed to begin to glow with an inner light their forms becoming translucent, ethereal. The villagers were terror struck and rushed forward holding aloft torches and iron tools. But they had left it too late. There was a flash of blinding light, and the nineteen maidens were turned to stone, frozen in their dance for eternity. Kerwyn and Talan were taken by surprise and responded by playing with increased fervour, their music becoming a lament. This lament seemed to be a plea to the listening spirits, and as their final notes began to fade away they were both also turned to stone, standing sentinel for the maidens they had loved.

The villagers were overwhelmed, overcome by remorse and grief, and fled back to Boleigh. During the days that followed there was much debate in the village, many discussions about what to do next. Some wanted to destroy the stones, to eradicate the symbol of their shame, others argued to preserve them as a reminder, and warning, to future generations. Eventually a consensus was reached that the stones would remain, but that the true story must be hidden. A new story was concocted to account for the stones, a story about maidens and pipers being punished for dancing on the Sabbath. This was the sanitised version that spread throughout the land, while the true story was only entrusted to very few, all of whom were sworn to secrecy. Thus have stood the stones for centuries, silent witnesses to passing time. But, there are certain nights when the moon is full and the wind is just so those with the gift will hear the faintest strains of the pipes and drums, and see the shadowy forms of the dancers moving in the mist.’

The voice fell silent. Alistair realised that he had been holding his breath. His mind reeling from the tale he had been told he exhaled slowly. This was a tale much different from the simple legend he knew, this was a far more nuanced and detailed tale touching on themes of love, fear, and the clash between the mundane and the magical.
‘That’s quite a story,’ he said at last, his voice sounding hoarse, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t set much store in tales of magic and transformation. I’m a man of science you see.’
A low chuckle seemed to ripple through the air
‘Are you indeed? And what does your science say about voices that speak from thin air?’
Alistair frowned unable to formulate a response. He pushed himself to his feet and brushed the grass from his trousers.
‘I’m sure there is a perfectly logical explanation.’ He muttered, more to himself than the mysterious voice.
‘Perhaps,’ the voice replied with a hint of amusement, ‘but tell me seeker of knowledge have you counted the stones?’

Alistair’s brow furrowed in exasperation, he had counted the stones many, many times. He circled the formation
‘Nineteen’ he said confidently, ‘Nineteen stones, just as there always have been.’
‘Are you certain?’ the voice asked ‘Count again.’
Alistair was becoming a little frustrated by this time, and began to walk the circle once more. This time he counted aloud pointing at each stone individually,
‘One, two, three... seventeen, eighteen, nineteen... twenty?’
He stopped short, staring in disbelief at a stone that he could have sworn hadn’t been there moments ago. Yet, there it stood slightly apart from the others its surface unblemished by lichen or erosion. As he watched he could barely believe his eyes as a second stone seemed to shimmer into existence beside it.
‘Impossible!’ he exclaimed rubbing his eyes in disbelief.
But there the two stones remained standing as real and solid as their companions.
‘You see’ the voice said softly ‘the world is full of mysteries that your science fails to understand or explain. The pipers have chosen to reveal themselves to you Alistair Penrose, what you will do with this knowledge is the burning question.’

Alistair’s mind was a turmoil. If what he was seeing was real – and he wasn’t completely convinced that it was – it would turn what was known of this circle upside down. It had the capacity to change everything he thought he knew about the world and its workings. But who would believe him? He knew that if he published what he had found he would face any amount of ridicule. He knew that the reputation he had built over decades of meticulous research would be in tatters. As if sensing his thoughts the voice spoke again
‘The choice is yours. You can take hold of this new understanding, this peek behind the veil of reality that you have been given. Or, you can walk away and convince yourself that it never happened, that it was an hallucination, a dream.’
Alistair stood rigid, as if he himself had been turned into one of the stones, torn between thoughts of the rational world and the irrational, undeniable evidence before his eyes. With the sun dipping towards then horizon, and the sky turning into deep purples and blues he could almost imagine that he could see the dancers whirling and twirling among the stones.

Alistair hadn’t realised that the day was coming to an end, that he had been there much longer than he had thought.
‘I need time to think’ he said at last ‘this is far too much to process all at once.’
‘Time’ the voice mused ‘is a curious thing. It flows differently here, in this place between worlds. The stones do not reveal their secrets easily, so be warned if you leave now you may never find your way back to this moment in time.’
He felt a shiver down his spine, glancing back to the road he could see his car, a familiar reminder of his rational world. Turning back to the stones which now seemed to pulse with an inner light in the fading day.
‘What should I do?’ he asked himself, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘Listen’ the voice replied, ‘listen with more than simply your ears. Let your mind embrace the music of the spheres, hear the songs that echo through eternity. For in those melodies will be found truths far deeper than any that your science can fathom.’

Alistair closed his eyes trying to focus his rational mind, taking deep breaths, feeling the earth beneath his feet, listening to the sounds of nature around him. All he could hear was the wind, and the distant crash of waves on the cliffs. Slowly, imperceptibly, other sounds began to become apparent. It began as a faint hum like a resonating tuning fork, followed by the breathy sound of the notes from pipes, accompanied by the steady rhythms of the drums. The music increased in intensity becoming more complex, weaving melodies not of this world. Melodies and harmonies that seemed reminiscent of ancient forests, of starlight, sea foam, and hidden caverns. Unconsciously he began to sway to the ethereal melodic rhythms, his feet tracing patterns on the grass. He felt lighter than he could ever remember, as if the boundaries of his physical form were fading, becoming ill defined.

When he opened his eyes again it seemed that the world had changed. The stones seemed to glow with a soft pulsing light with translucent figures among them. He saw the maidens, their faces alight with joy, he saw the pipers, and heard their music, music calling to something deep and primal. There just on the edges of vision Alistair saw glimpses of other times, other realities that no longer existed. He saw the stones as when they were first erected, watching as generations came and went. He witnessed the ebb and flow of scepticism and belief, a belief far more ancient than any known religion. In those moments he came to an understanding, he knew that these stones were more than mere rocks arranged in a circle. This circle was a focal point, a place where the veil of reality was wafer thin, and that his measurements and questions had opened a portal in the fabric of time itself.

The vision began to fade, and Alistair felt a sense of peace and tranquillity settle upon him. The voice spoke, softer now, one final time
‘Remember seeker of knowledge, the greatest mysteries are those that live in the spaces between what we think we know. Go now, and carry this truth with you.’
He blinked and the world snapped back into focus. There the stones stood silent and grey in the gathering twilight, giving no intimation of the wonders they had revealed. But something had changed inside him, something subtle and profound. He turned and began the walk back to his car, his legs somewhat shaky, his mind a turmoil with all he had experienced. He sat in the car a long time before moving off. It was in this time that he came to the realisation that it was now not for him to prove what he had seen, he now knew that some truths would always defy scientific explanation. He knew that now it was for him to, in some way, act as a bridge between the world of rational facts and figures and the more irrational world of wonders and mysteries.

Alistair started the car, but before moving off he took one last look at the stones, knowing that one day he would return. He smiled, and whispered ‘Thank you.’ whether to the voice, the stones, or a greater entity he didn’t know. He drove off leaving the Merry Maidens and their Pipers to their eternal dance. Weaving his way back towards Boleigh he felt a change in the air, and was almost certain that he could hear the faint strains of otherworldly music being carried to him on the wind bringing the thought that the stones do more than stand silent – they sing.

Authors Note
The Merry Maidens has, for several reasons, a special place in my heart. I have known the popular story of them for many decades now, and have always thought there might be an alternative version. The accepted story is that there stones were a group of maidens and two pipers turned to stone for playing and dancing on a Sunday. It was a few weeks ago that The idea of an alternative version cropped up again. So I sat and thought about it making copious notes, and here it is. Be warned this is just a draft.