The druid dressed himself in his white robes and led two white oxen, yoked for the first time in their young lives, to the center of the village. Then he called his people, and they gathered behind him, ready for their journey.
They began their long walk, their way lighted by the full moon.
As they neared the edge of the forest, the path grew steep, but no one missed a step, and no one complained. The night was bitter cold and the moon sharp and clear. The people were filled with silent wonder at the beauty of their world. They walked into the dark forest where the sky was hidden from sight and darkness ruled, but still some remnant of light and remembrance guided them. As the wind began to whistle through the thick branches, the druid began to chant. Even the trees seemed to chant along.
The old man, surely, knew the language of the trees, but then, the druid knew everything there was to know about the world, and that is why the people gladly followed him.
After a while, everything familiar disappeared. They were far from their homes, far from their fields and cattle and sheep. Still, they walked with confidence.
At last the druid called them to halt, and he pointed at a tall, sturdy oak just in front of them. The limbs of the stately tree seemed to rise to the sky in prayer, and the moonlight shone down upon them again.
“This is our tree,” the druid said, and altogether the people chanted, “Our tree.” The forest echoed with the sound of their voices.
There, in the twisted branches of the tree, was a ball of bright green leaves. They might have been surprised at the sight in this forest barren of leaves, but this happened every year at this time. The druid found the place where the gods had chosen to bless a special tree. There in the branches grew the mystical, magical plant that had no roots, yet still had bright green leaves even when the other trees and branches were bare and brown.
The plant, the people believed, came from another world, from the world of their gods, the world of their dead, and its green leaves were a potent symbol, the symbol of life bursting out of death. The druid called the plant the mistletoe, and every year, when the people saw it, they knew that their dead were among them still, casting their blessings and prayers to all who remained on Earth.
At the druid’s signal, the people formed a circle around the blessed tree, and the druid, old and frail, his hands weak and shaking, began, with what seemed no effort at all, to climb those sturdy branches. Up he climbed, careful to watch his footing but pulled as if by magic toward the plant.
“He makes it seem easy,” the people whispered. “He’s guided by the gods,” others answered.
In his hand he carried a sickle of gold, bright as the sun. He chanted as he climbed, gripping the sickle tightly, and when he finally reached the top of the tree, he lifted the sickle and with one mighty blow, cut the mistletoe.
As he cut it, the people down below gave thanks for this blessing, for the memory of their ancestors and loved ones, for the signs of life that always exist in the world, even in the darkest days.
As the mistletoe fell to the ground, the snow began to fall harder, the wind whistled more loudly, and the people said their thanks. They knew, now, that all would be well for the year to come because they held in their hands the plant from the kingdom of the dead. The magical plant brought light and joy, love and remembrance, to all the world.
“TELL ME A STORY 3: Women of Wonder,” the third CD in the audiobook series, is now available. For more information, visit www.mythsandtales.com.
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