A few steps back from The Watcher, a wide rock was imbedded in the earth. At one time this stone may have been flat and slightly above ground level, but through years unknown, countless feet had worn the stone down to the point that it was now slightly concave. On this stone the elder now stood, facing The Watcher and the dawn. He had been coming to this spot a dozen times a year, for nearly fifty years--first with his father, then by himself and for the last few years with Tad at his side--to witness the birth of a new day and a new season. He knew what to expect, but the mystery of the ritual still filled him with awe. The sky behind the Sentinels grew brighter by the moment--pink at the horizon, fading to deep purple, then finally to grey--and off in the woods a bird began its morning song to herald the sun. The elder whispered a prayer to the god Baldur as he waited, not daring to even blink, as he feared that he would miss the moment.

Then it happened.

The edge of the sun broke from behind the horizon, directly between the right edge of The Watcher and to the left of the tall Sentinel on the right side of the circle. The sun was perfectly placed between them, just as he knew it would be; just as it had been every morning on this day of the year since the Sentinels had first been set upright and he was sure that it would continue to happen thus, every year until the end of time.

He raised his arms to the heavens, welcoming the Sun and the new season. Winter had now been banished and spring, the rebirth, was fully upon them, with summer not far off. Crops, already planted, would soon be growing, the weather would continue to warm and their livestock would fatten on new grass and shortly begin their coupling rituals. Beltane was upon them and the world was reborn!

When the elder returned to the plain below the Sentinels, Tad had already laid out the eight poles--each taken from a different kind of tree--into a large grid on the ground and was carefully removing the grass from the outer eight squares formed by the grid. His grandfather tousled the boy's hair again and moved off toward the village.

The elder soon returned to the area of the plain, carrying, with some assistance, a large log of seasoned oak--wood from the ninth tree for the fire--which was reverently placed on the grass in the center section of the grid. He laid out a white cloth near the wooden grid, along with other items that he would need for the evening ritual and then everyone returned to the village, to rejoice in the holiday. May Cakes would now be cooked and decorated, to be eaten on the morrow and people would prepare themselves for the coming festival--some making costumes of hide, feathers and wood, others forming garlands of spring flowers to be worn around the necks of men and boys and in the hair of women and young girls.

Toward dusk, Tad and his grandfather returned to the plain and the elder knelt next to the oaken log. Runes of birth and well come, prosperity and fertility had been carved into the wood and a hole had been drilled into the center of the log. The elder now took up a stout stick of oak, slightly tapered at one end and he placed this in the hole. Tad held the stick upright as his grandfather looped a length of cord around it, the cord attached to a small wooden bow, which was also made of oak. Using another piece of wood to press down on top of the pointed stick--to maintain pressure in the hole--the elder began to saw back and forth with the bow, causing the stick to spin, rapidly.