The Holly King
warning : A graphic tale of rebirth based in Celtic mythology.
Yule Morning, near noon.
Like a spectre rising from the mist, he appears. The Holly King. He stands tall and majestic in all of his splendour. The golden mask that covers his face catches the mid-morning sun, scattering the rays across the clearing. A crown of holly boughs adorns his head. Bar the mask and crown, he is completely sky clad, naked as the day he was born.
He strides bullishly to the centre of the dais and raises his arms to the sky. We all fall silent immediately. After all, he is the Holly King. And on this day of Yule, the seventh winter solstice of his reign, he will be reborn.
Yule Morning, before dawn.
We have been preparing long before sunrise. All the young men from the surrounding tribes have come together, all feuds and quarrels temporarily forgiven. Since the Holly King’s last rebirth, I have passed the age of fifteen summers, and I now find myself able to join the ceremony.
We decorate our bodies in swirling designs of blue woad, working in small groups. Our hair is bleached with lime water. As it dries, it becomes coarse like a horse’s mane, flowing backwards away from our faces.
For one of us, this day could bring the greatest honour of our lives. Greater than passing the rite of passage and becoming a man, greater than your first kill – animal or man, and greater than, for those that have sired children, the birth of one’s first born.
My stomach churns in anticipation and a little apprehension. It reminds me of the time when I faced my first boar. My hands clammy against the ash of the shaft, the iron head wavering slightly as I faced down the massive beast. Now, I feel the same. As we prepare to leave the bonfires which have kept us warm through the darkness, I rub my hands on the soft earth, feeling the power of the Earth Goddess as the sandy grains absorbs my apprehension. I breathe easily now, knowing that She will guide me through this day, as She guides the Holly King through his reign and rebirth. I think back to when I first saw him.
Imbolc – the start of spring (six years before).
It was the night before Imbolc, the Feast to welcome Spring. It was time to celebrate the Earth Goddess, (especially her aspect as the maiden; the symbol of desire and love) and her sister Anu; the Goddess of Fertility. I could not sleep, and I had left the long house to sit outside. The chill night air bit deep and I wrapped my cloak tighter around me. The moon, full and round, broke through the clouds.
“What ails you, boy?” The voice jolted me into life, and I scrambled to my feet. At first, as I heard no approach, I had thought a spirit or another being from the Fae world had crept upon me. I turned, my hand reaching not for the short blade that sat at my belt but held out in front of me to indicate that I held nothing.
The figure loomed from the shadows, and I was relieved to see that he too was bare handed. He was bare-chested, his shoulders covered by a cloak of ivy. Above his piercing black eyes was a crown of holly, woven about his forehead. I immediately dropped to my knees again, lowering my gaze.
“No need for that. Under Luna’s gaze, we are all equal.” I looked up and saw him staring at the bright disc in the night.
“But…” I started, in awe at the presence of the Earth Goddess’s chosen mate.
“But nothing, boy. We are the same. It is said that my birth mother brought me into this world under the gaze of Luna, same as yours.” I nodded, wondering how he remembered, or even knew I was born during a full moon.
“We both breathe, and eat, and we will both die. We are the same.” He looked at me as I raised my eyebrows. “Yes, even me. Now, neither of us are meant to be out this late, or this far from the village. We should return.”
As we walked back, I remembered the question he had raised. I managed to stammer, as I addressed the man who was equal in status to the tribal king. This was the man who had been chosen by the Goddess herself, but I did think I could talk to him about anything.
“Sire, you asked me what ailed me?”
“Yes?”
“My Tests start soon. I am ashamed to say that I am afraid of failing.”
“We are all afraid of failure. Anyone who says they are not, lies. Tomorrow, I am to make my way into the womb of the earth to meet and converse with Brigid, the sister of my Queen, the Goddess. She will exact a heavy price for guaranteeing our ewes and cows swell with offspring. She will seduce me, as is her way, and my mistress, Danu, will be upset if I do not satisfy her sister. I, too, am afraid of failure.”
“Really?” As soon as I say it, I realise it sounds, almost childish.
“Of course, why do you think I cannot sleep, like you,” he smiled.
Yule Morning, before.
We walk towards the sacred clearing, a single file of warriors. As we stride in unison, we strike the ground with the hafts of our spears and sing out as one.
Nine times nine times nine voices exult the Earth Goddess’s name with each footstep. Nine times nine times nine spear hafts clatter to the ground with each step. Danu hears our approach, without a doubt. I realise that my hands are no longer clammy, the fear and apprehension has left me.
We enter the clearing. The morning mist hanging low on the ground almost obscures the spiral-like maze drawn out overnight by the druids using red dust. We follow the path, entering the maze, until the first warrior is at the centre. Then, with a final clatter of the spear hafts, we stop. The length of a spear separates each man from the one in front or behind, and each line to our side.
And then silence.
Pungent smoke billows out from the raised deck at one end of the clearing. It joins the early morning mist rolling across the valleys but this is different. It smells of rose and sulphur. The totems of animal skulls loom from this mist – and then one moves, a beast with the curved horns of a mountain goat. The figure is clad in fur adorned with gold and glass beads. Raising its arms to the sky, it lifts his head to show the face beneath the skull. Drarbad; the chief druid. The ritual is about to begin, and a low murmur rises from the crowd.
Lughnasadh – the start of harvest (four years before).
The next time I met the Holly King was at Lughnasadh, the celebration of harvest and to give praise to the Earth Goddess in all her glory, and to her aspect of Mother; She Who Will Provide. Once again, it was time for the villages and homesteads to come together and to offer sacrifices.
We gathered in the clearing once more. This time men, women, and children together. The smell of roasting meat filled the air as carcasses cook upon bonfires. Oxen, sheep, and goats have been slaughtered by the druids wielding their polished sickles. The weather had been fair this year, just enough rain, just enough sun. The Earth Goddess had looked after her children well and had provided for all.
Everyone brought food and drink. Simple wicker enclosures kept the goats and sheep from roaming, whilst the bodies of geese, hens, and hares hung from poles set up for that purpose. Sheafs of wheat and barley were piled high, along with trays made of bark, holding vast quantities of berries and fruit.
The Holly King sat at the head of the clearing, next to the tribal king and his family. He was bare-chested, and his long, raven-coloured hair fell over his broad shoulders. He was in conversation with the king, a cooked rabbit thigh in one hand and a horn of ale in the other. Both were crowned in their unique way; the Holly King with his boughs of holly wrapped around his temples, and the tribal king with his circlet of gold. I made to walk past, my offering in hand, when I heard him address me.
“Chulin!” I jumped at my name being called. “What do you have there?” I turned to face him, at first, apprehensive. I raised my hand to show off the three salmon that I had caught that morning. Their silver-blue scales glinted in the sun as I lifted them higher.
“Salmon, Sire. Only young ones but each a hearty meal.”
“Bring them here, so I might take a closer look.” He drained his ale and placed the empty horn on his lap.
I did as I was told and nervously approached. I handed them over and he inspected them, feeling their weight. He smiled and nodded appreciatively. Turning he handed them to a maiden who sat behind him, then grabbed a leg of lamb from a nearby platter and handed it to me. The Holly King leant forward and whispered to me.
“It’s a plentiful harvest. See, I did not fail – just as you won’t.”
I nodded, slightly confused, as the days of my Tests had come and gone many moons ago, and I hadn’t failed. I was now a warrior of the tribe.
Yule Morning
And then he appears. The Holly King. In all his magnificence, he stands; tall and majestic. A plain, gold mask covers his face, and this catches the mid-morning sun, scattering rays across the clearing. A crown of holly boughs adorns his head. Bar the mask and the crown, he is completely sky clad, naked and devoid of woad. He carries an axe, a hefty blade on an oak haft in one hand, and a wand made of a bundle of holly withies tied together. These are the symbols of his wedlock to the Earth Goddess.
He strides to the centre of the dais to stand in front of a menhir and raises his arms to the sky. We all fall to silence immediately. Because he is the Holly King. And this day of Yule, the Winter Solstice, he will be reborn. Maidens from the Temple of the Earth Goddess rise from the mist, their naked bodies adorned with intricate designs painted in black dye and blue woad. Their long tresses are decorated with sprigs of mistletoe.
Several of the maidens walk between the lines of the men, unabashed at their nakedness. One carries a golden bowl which she holds level with her painted breasts. I know not what they look for, but the leader scrutinises the face of the man in front of her. Something about the first four is not to her liking and she moves on, her procession of young women following her.
Finally, she sees what she is searching for and beckons to one of the maidens. The young woman, who has seen no more than seventeen summers wraps her arms around the man in a lover’s embrace. She kisses him deeply and whispers something in his ear. She lifts her hand to her head and plucks a milky white berry from the sprig of mistletoe entwined in her hair and places it gently in the golden bowl carried by her associate. The painted woman leads the chosen man from the line towards the Holly King. Bidding him to wait there, she turns to re-join her colleagues.
They move along the line, working their way towards where I stand. More men are chosen, more kisses and embraces are given, and more white berries are added to the golden bowl. The leader moves on from the man to my side and then stands in front of me. I do not know where to look. Do I meet her gaze, or do I look past her as if she is not there?
She turns and nods to one of her attendants. The woman walks forward and places her hands on my cheeks. She draws me forward and I start to fall into her eyes as they open wide. Her lips taste like no fruit I had ever tasted – or any that I ever will. I can feel her warmth as she rubs herself against me. And then suddenly, it’s over. The kiss ends and my lips return to normality. She reaches up and plucks a berry from the sprig of mistletoe and adds it to the golden bowl.
She leads me to the front to join the others. This small group numbers maybe three times three times three by the time that the procession of painted women has finished. The unchosen close their ranks and retreat slightly. The Temple women carry the golden bowl of mistletoe berries onto the dais and lay it at the feet of the Holly King next to a smoking brazier.
“It is time.” The leader of the women looks up at the Holly King and speaks. The rest repeat the chant as one. The Holly King nods and hands the wand of holly withies to her. She turns to the waiting crowd and holds it aloft, displaying it to them.
“Behold! The Wand of the Holly King!” She places it down next to the bowl of berries. The Holly King raises the axe to his lips and kisses the blade before handing it to the leader. She displays it like she did the wand.
“Behold! The Axe of the Holly King!” She places it alongside the wand. Like others, I had seen the Axe of the Holly King before, but unlike others, I had held it.
Samhain – the start of autumn (two years before).
Samhain was the first time that I saw the Axe of the Holly King up close. Samhain, the time of year to celebrate the dead and the Earth Goddess in her aspect of the Hag, the fountain of wisdom and knowledge. The week prior to Samhain had been spent with the construction of a wicker man, not a giant one like the ones burnt at Ynys Mons that could take two or more score captives, but smaller. This one was packed with livestock and a trio of thieves captured over the previous weeks.
In front of the wicker man was a tree stump, its width and breadth equal to a man’s forearm. There stood the Holly King, waiting as the final captive was led to him. He wore his customary golden mask and was bare-chested. His muscles glazed with sweat as he stood tall and patient in the autumnal sun. Ogham runes were daubed upon his chest in pigs’ blood, an earlier sacrifice to the Earth Goddess.
I had the honour of leading the prisoner to him, his bound hands connected to mine by another rope. He shuffled hurriedly, trying to keep pace with my strides. I had no wish to humiliate him, only to hasten his journey to whatever god or goddess he served.
I handed him over to the Holly King and the two druids who stood nearby. He mumbled something to me as I handed his leash over, whether it was a curse or a thanks, I did not know as his tongue was guttural and almost inhuman. He was as tall as the Holly King and turned to face the faceless visage. I could see his face reflected in the plain gold.
He faced his death well, both the event and the bringer of it. He spat out words in his barbaric language and then looked shocked as the Holly King replied in the same tongue. The man nodded, his blond hair waving slightly in the breeze, and spoke again.
It was the turn of the Holly King to nod, and he barked out an order.
“Untie him!”
Both myself and the druids stood still with shock. This was not how it was done.
“Now!” snarled the golden mask, and I tentatively stepped forward and ran my knife through the rope bonds. Rubbing his wrists, he spoke again to the Holly King, then knelt and laid his head upon the stump.
The Holly King raised his axe and the grim blade shone, the sun bouncing of its polished head and dancing across its victim that lay prone before it. We all knew the axe would cut true, the spirits and essence of dead heroes imbued into the iron head as it had been cast coursed magic through the blade.
The blade made its short journey in the blink of an eye and the captive died well, honouring his god or goddess with a good death. One druid picked the fallen head up and displayed it to the tribal king, who watched from his seat a few yards away. The other druid watched the death throes of the body, interpreting the twists and jerks as only one with a druid’s eye can.
“Chulin.” The Holly King called to me.
“Yes, sire?” I answered, jerking my gaze from the blood drenched stump.
“Clean this in the stream yonder. Honour his life with his blood washed into the water as a sacrifice to Margrawn.” He handed me the axe as he mentioned the river god.
I reverently hefted the axe in my hands, the weight felt balanced and poised. It almost felt like the spirits of the heroes confined within the iron, and those of whose lives it had taken were singing to me.
The bundles of wood and straw piled up under the wicker man were lit, and the crackling of the wood as it burst into flames was soon drowned out by the cacophony of noise and screams that came from those imprisoned within.
“Sire? What did he say to you?”
The Holly King looked at me, his eyes piercing mine from beyond the mask. When he spoke, it was as if I was speaking to myself, my face reflected in the golden mask.
“He said, ‘Strike well.’ That was all.”
Yule Morning.
With the axe and wand on the ground before him, the Holly King offers his wrists to two of the maidens. They stretch upwards, lifting his arms above his head and tying them to an iron ring set in the stone menhir. Another maiden removes the golden mask, so his face is clear for all to see. He smiles and life dances within his eyes. He glances across the chosen ones who stand before him, as if searching for someone. When they meet mine, he stops and stares at me, smiling once more.
The High Priestess reaches to his crown of holly and plucks a small red berry from it. She raises it up as if to show the world then places it within the golden bowl of mistletoe berries. There it sits, red amongst the white. Blood red amongst the seminal white.
“I am the Holly King, always was and always will be. Past death and through rebirth.” The voice is hollow and shouted out, echoing about the natural dip within the clearing. The crowd hushes as they wait. The High Priestess cuts the bindings holding the wand of holly withies together. She holds one and passes the rest to an acolyte who kneels and holds them aloft.
Circling the Holly King, she settles to the right of him, and grasps his bicep with one hand. Placing the sharpened holly stick to his skin, she thrusts without warning, piercing the whole of his muscle, so the stick protrudes through his arm.
I watch his face twist at the suddenness of the pain. Although he had braced himself, it had been more than he was ready for. Still, he did not cry out but gritted his teeth, and then when the pain had subsided slightly, he spoke.
“I am the Holly King, past death and through rebirth!” The mantra was repeated as the high priestess thrust the remaining stakes through his skin, piercing his other bicep, his chest and the muscles between his neck and shoulder. Rivulets of blood trickled downwards, and I was reminded of how he had appeared at Samhain, his torso covered in blood as he sacrificed the prisoner.
Now, he has become the sacrificial one, his tenure as the Holly King finishing seven years after he had stepped into it. It was time for his death, and his rebirth.
“I am the Holly King, the consort of the Earth Goddess.” He spits the words out through the pain. Blood seeped from his lips where he had bitten into his lip to stop from crying out.
“He is the consort of the Earth Goddess!” cry the acolytes, as the high priestess raises her silver blade to his chest. His eyes widen and roll, momentarily showing only the whites as she slices a nipple off. The flesh sizzled as she drops it into the brazier. This time his voice stumbles over the words and only those close to him hear him.
“I am the consort of the Earth Goddess.” The other nipple follows the first and from where I stand, I can hear the grinding of his teeth as he fights past the pain and then he repeats his chant.
The high priestess lowers the silver blade and slices again, this time emasculating the consort of the Earth Goddess. He screams shrilly and clamps his mouth shut to stop it mid-scream. As he mumbles his chant, blood pours from his mouth where he has, once again, bitten into his tongue.
“I am only hers.” Blood drips into the brazier as she holds the mangled organs above it, then lets them drop. We can smell the burning meat and blood from where we stand.
The acolytes release him from his bindings, and he falls to his knees, spitting blood. The high priestess picks the axe up and places the blade upon his neck. Her voice is calm and collected, as if she were asking a child a question.
“Say it.”
With gritted teeth, the Holly King speaks. Despite the pain he has endured he manages to address the host clearly and loudly.
“I am the Holly King, past death and through rebirth!”
His eyes seek mine and I can see his lips move as he mouths two more words to me as the axe rises.
“Strike well!”
The axe falls and the Holly King dies. Am I a fool for thinking he would be reborn there and then? That he would stand and be whole and living?
He is dead and the high priestess holds his head aloft.
The acolytes pick the golden bowl of berries up and carry it down to where the sixty chosen ones stand alongside me. With their black-inked skin speckled with the Holly King’s blood, the acolytes move between us, holding the golden bowl aloft above their heads. As it passes, we each raise a hand in to retrieve a berry from within.
My fist is clenched with my knuckles turning white. I almost know what is inside even before I open it. I turn my hand over and slowly uncurl my fingers to reveal the bright red holly berry in my palm. Around me, my colleagues are revealing their white mistletoe berries.
A breath caresses the back of my neck and a voice murmurs into my ear. It is a familiar voice, one I first heard on the eve of Imbolc many years before. I do not turn, as I know that he is both there and not there, like the wind across the plain.
“See, I did not fail – just as you won’t.”
I smile, knowing now that the Holly King has been reborn. Past death, through rebirth.
I am the Holly King.