Very first day of Snowshoe Breaking Moon, Streams of Mnemosyne

“You have already survived the things you will remember.”

Gorgon’s words haunt me. I sit by memory’s waters everyday, but haven’t dared to drink. The music of the streams over the stones is soothing. It sings to me healing songs. Remember and be well. Remember and be whole.

I remember enough to know I don’t want to remember.

I vow I will drink tomorrow. For now, just one more day of just being.

It is lovely here in the Caravan Camp. Ancient oaks hold sheltering arms over our wagons. Music is the language of this place. Someone is always practicing their instrument or whistling or singing. The birds keep up an endless chorale throughout the day accompanied by the wind in the leaves. At night the spring peepers and insects continue the song. The smells of stew and bread waft on the breeze, there is always joe or tea to refresh. Hunger and thirst are satisfied.

My wagon is a delight. It is solidly built of oak and black ash. The ruby red shingles are watertight. The sides are painted with scenes of meadows. The windows are protected by carved shutters displaying birds, roses and little green snakes. The wheels are solid, and also painted gaily. Under the wagon are spaces for folded chairs, cast iron tripod, galvanized wash tub and scrubbing board, handy dandy for both my Saturday morning laundry and Saturday night bath. Three steps fold down to allow entrance and exit through the Dutch doors. Steps and door are also painted and carved. The top half of the door is rounded and windowed. The glass is etched with spiraling vines, birds, roses, snakes. A boot box extends from the steps to keep shoes while inside the wagon.

Inside is just as delightful. The far end is an enclosed bunk, a soft nest of padding, pillows and blankets. A small window lets me look out into the silver bush behind my wagon. There are cupboards for books and things within the bunk. A small lamp for reading at night hangs from the ceiling. Under the bunk are drawers for clothes and linens. The foot of end of the bunk is a narrow closet, for things needing to be hung up and a broom.

The door end is a wall of cupboards. The door of one cupboard is a mirror. The doors of others are covered in cork, studded with whimsical pushpins holding artist flotsam and jetsam. In these cupboards everything for living is stored: dishes, cups, pots, pans, food stuffs, towels, toiletries, herbals, clothesline, dishpan, soap, basin and pitcher. The oak floor is covered in a thick wool rug, soft as turf to sit upon. No chairs inside, a carved stool and a soft ottoman provide seating. Both are practical as well as beautiful. The stool’s base is a box with a door, the top of the ottoman flips to store things too. My grandmother’s hope chest sits square in the middle of all. It is the table in my wagon. A lamp hangs above it. Painted trays hang on the walls, along with photos of my beloved ones. Two windows face each other on both the long sides of the wagon. Window boxes hang over the sills, on the inside during travel and storm, outside when we stop. Treasured stones and shells are tucked among the blooming plants. Here, too, is a dish of water for Verdia, who comes and goes as she chooses. No curtains, but hanging from beaded chains in one window are crystal prisms, sending rainbows dancing across the daffodil colored walls. Hanging in the other is a hummingbird feeder, attracting flying jewels to my home.

Between window and bunk is a little porcelain stove, looking like a fat white dog begging on bandy legs. It takes just a few bits of wood at a time, but burns them very slowly and completely. This too is as artful as practical, painted reliefs decorate the prosaic stove and pipe. The top of the stove is molded to hold a teapot. I can reach it easily from my sleeping nest. I keep cup, tea and tea basket close in my bunk cupboards. Just above my stove is a contraption from bygone days for drying laundry. I use it to warm slippers and socks.

It is hard to believe this was once the box of an old hay truck. It is as vibrant and dainty a home as I could wish. I paint little things here and there as fancy dictates. I calligraphy the inspiring words of others and my own poems on the ceiling and walls. I am as alone as I want to be, and always in the company of dancing and singing kindred spirits. I am happy here.

I am safe here as well. Yes, tomorrow I will drink from the streams of memory. I am ready.

Sixth day, Second Half of Goose Moon, Land of Standing Stones

I am flesh again.

I rejoice that I am restored, but, Oh! let me never forget the lessons learned while I was stone!

Yesterday, I believe, I am not entirely sure of time, the Gorgon visited me. She said nothing, and as I could not speak, neither did I. Evenso, there was communication. She prepared me a tea, and I knew as she brewed it, its purpose was healing.

The tea tasted of earth and left my mouth dry. I could feel myself growing sleepy. The Gorgon held my hand as I drifted asleep. My last awareness was of my little serpent coiling itself around my arm.

I knew I was asleep, but I was also aware I was not dreaming. I watched my serpent slough off its skin. It looked at me. Without words it was telling me to put on the skin it had shed. Perplexed, I picked up the brittle sheath, thin as grass, as long as my hand. Each tiny scale was depicted perfectly, even to the scale coating the eyes, the openings for the nostrils, transparent as mica. My serpent lay coiled beside me, luminous in its new skin. It nodded its head in encouragement.

Gingerly I wriggled my little finger into it. The snakeskin stretched to fit, enveloping my hand, then arm, over my head like a tight sweater, down my body to my feet. It felt comfortable.

Then I realized I was eye to eye with the little grass snake that had been my companion since the Day of Serpents. Looking up I saw the Gorgon, shooing my hissing cats from the bed. She reached down her hands, and I slithered into one.

Slithered is too ugly a word for the beautiful feeling of the movement- sinuous undulations. My snake body moved sensuously in one smooth, gliding movement.

The words of Solomon came to me, “There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.”

The Serpent Queen set us gently down on the ground. My body thrilled to the feel of the earth under it. Humus is alive. The ground thrummed with movement, bunching of earthworms, scurrying ants and beetles, the mewling of larvae

Snake senses are very different from my familiar human ones. Foremost, I could not hear. Sound vibrated through my body resonating in feeling. I knew which vibrations were the jumps of crickets and which the danger of human beings. My ability to taste the air was heightened beyond imagination. The flavor was complex and rich, yet I could discern each individual element: water, bark, leaf mold, stone, mouse, owl, human, fellow snake. My awareness of temperature was different as well. I could feel the proximity of creatures by the heat they exuded. I could tell when I crossed the bedding place of a deer in the grass, how long the sun had set by the temperature of the stones, where baby rabbits lay still in their nest, still but for the beating of their hearts, which I could also feel. Sight was very different too. Besides the perspective of ground level looking up, eyes set on each side of my head gave me expanded peripheral vision, though everything was colorless. My sight was alert for movement, stirrings of the shadows. My body responded instantly to my senses. I nabbed a cricket before I was aware it was near.

I followed my mentor serpent like a shadow.

By dawn we had reached a river. Fearlessly my companion approached the human sitting on a wooden pier. Fearfully I followed, disliking the feel of lumber on my scales.

The human was a woman. She was clad in tall black leather boots and supple deerskin breeches. Her shirt was inky silk, flowing from her shoulders and arms like water. Her long grey hair was bound by a magenta scarf. Something about her scent reminded me of Sybilla…

“Ah, Verdia,” she was saying to my serpent, “you have brought a friend. You want to cross I take it?

Did I understand her because I was a human or because she could speak the snake language Naga-Krita? I did not hear a reply from Verdia, my serpent. But the woman understood.

“Of course I will take you. It is no trouble at all, you are a friend. You have helped me out of many a scrap, taking you across is the least I can do.”

The woman reached down her hands and we coiled ourselves into her calloused palms. As gently as the Gorgon, she set us down in the bottom of a shallow boat. She pulled us across the water by means of a thick rope and pulleys strung between the two piers. I wondered why Verdia chose to take a ferry when we could swim across the water easily ourselves. Instantly the answer flashed in my brain – predators.

Once across the woman again lifted us gently from the boat. Both Verdia and I nodded our thanks.

“Blessings be to ye!” she called as she pulled away from shore to return. Verdia led me up a steep hill parallel a stair of stones built into the hillside. We wended our way on the soft turf between stones until we came to a small hole at the base of a wall. In we went, down into the dark highway of snakes.

We emerged into a subterranean cavern, lit by a few candles in mirrored alcoves. Across the cavern was a stairs ending in a pool where we now rested. A woman bearing a small lamp glided down the stairs as smoothly as if she were a serpent herself. She set her lamp on a shelf and beckoned us.

“Verdia? Is that you?”

Verdia flowed into the pool, shimmying across. I followed, gliding in Verdia’s wake.

“Oh, it is you!” exclaimed the woman. “And you have brought another.”

This woman is older than the ferry keeper, but looks younger. Her white hair falls past her ankles in a shimmering braid. Her face is wrinkled, but rosy. Her hands are knotted and veined, but move easily as she reaches her hand affectionately to Verdia. She seems as perennially young as spring, but as old as the rocks of this cavern.

“No one will disturb you, I promise. Stay as long as you like, as long as you need. I will be close if you need me.”

Turning to me she said, “Verdia is a worthy guide to these Springs of Castalia. The waters are ancient, springing from the very heart of the earth. Many things in the water are terrifying, but none can harm you, though they may hurt you. Blessings be to thee.”

She laid out her palm to me, and I laid my head in it, absorbing her warmth, her scent like apples. When I lifted my head she turned to leave, taking her little lamp with her.

Verdia was lapping the water, and I did the same. It tasted unpleasant, like sulfur, and was warm. Verdia glided back into the pool, diving into the black depths. I followed.

We dove until I thought I would die. But at the last moment, Verdia led me into a small crack between the stones emitting bubbles and steam. This tunnel was illuminated by fire, the rock baked hot. We side-wound like desert snakes, barely touching the burning surface. We reached the lip of a pit. Blades of blackened grass cropped up between pits of rock. It looked dead, but following Verdia’s example, I ate some. It was a living plant, though tough and dry. It scratched my throat going down, but I felt immediately cooler.

Verdia began a careful descent into the pit. We made our way over cinders and pools of bubbling, molten rock. We traveled for a very long time, hours or days, I am not sure, until at last we reached a wall of glowing coals.

I drew back in alarm as the wall shifted, imagining it falling down on us in a shower of burning embers. What I took to be a wall was not, it was the mammoth coils of a colossal serpent. Verdia led me around it until we were looking into an enormous eye.

Like I could feel the beating of a rabbit’s heart, I could feel the sound of the serpent’s thoughts.

“I am Ouroboros, the Great World Serpent. The Egyptians call me Nehebu-Kau. The Norse, the Comanches know me by other names. The world rests upon my coils. When I breathe the mountains shake and land trembles. When I exhale, smoke and fire pour from my nostrils. I am the churning rope of Vishnu and Shiva, that churned the primordial milk sea into the Butter of Immortality.

“The Greeks called me Python. Apollo thought he killed me, but I cannot die. I am born of Gaia, the very source of life.

“Learn from me.”

Verdia led me away, over Ouroboros, upwards into dark caverns. Here I met Jormungand, son of Loki, foster brother of Odin. Jormungand will help destroy the world at the last battle between the gods and giants. Here too was Nidhogg, who devours the souls of evil men. Near by was Am-Mut-Set, also an eater of souls. In still another the cockatrice or Basilisk. We visited the underground city Bhogavati, where the naga have their treasure houses.

“Learn from me.” “Learn from me.” “Learn from me.” “Learn from us.”

Further on through the labyrinthian tunnels under the earth we came to the fantastic palaces of the Dragon King. From there we emerged onto the earth’s surface. Cien Tang, the Great River Dragon greeted us. His yin scales were blood red, his yang scales purest gold, his mane was fire. He can make himself as large as the universe, as small as a flea. For us he made himself as small as ourselves, and bade his servants to bring us rice wine.

Cien Tang told us this tale:

“The King of Heaven, Yu Huang Shang Ti, The Jade Emperor, was troubled by mankind. Thus he neglected to send rain to the earth. The people suffered terribly, so the dragons appealed to Yu Huang Shang Ti to send water. Still troubled the Jade Emperor disregarded their request. The dragons took it upon themselves to carry water to the people in their mouths. Furious at their presumption, the Jade Emperor imprisoned the dragons under four mountains. Still the people perished. The dragons broke free of the mountains becoming rivers. They flowed across the land into the sea. And so they remain until this day, the Heilongijan or Black Dragon River, the Huanghe or Yellow River, the Yangntze or Long River, the Zhujiang or Pearl River.”

Cien Tang taught me about the cycle of the zodiac. “There are both dragon years and snake years. Dragon years are the time to start a new venture, to marry, to have children. The dragon represents daring, ambition, power. There are five dragon colors, green, red, blue, black and white. Snake years are years of introspection, planning, seeking. These are not the years to act, but to consider future actions. Snakes symbolize the search for wisdom, for truth, for inner growth. The five colors of snakes are blue, purple, gold, silver and gray.”

We left Cien Tang to follow the sinuous body of a river. Sitting on the bank was a beautiful woman making figures of river clay, When we came closer I saw the woman was a serpent from the waist down.

“Ah, Little Jade Snake, how long it has been! Have you eaten?” I could understand her speech, but not the speech of Verdia.

The woman turned to me. “Ni hao, little jade one. I am Nu Kua, creatrix of the Chinese people.” She breathed into the face of one of her clay figures. It slowly began to wake.

She smiled at me. “Learn from me, little jade one.” Then she slid into the river and was gone.

Verdia led me into a garden. There were many fountains, each attended by a goddess. We wound our way to each.

“I am Birgit Anu. Learn from me.”

“I am Wadjet.” “I am Acpaxapo.” “I am Tiamat.”

“Learn from me.” “Learn from me.” “Learn from me.”

“I am Ariadne.” “I am Chalchiuhtlicue.” “I am Coatlique.”

“Learn from me.” “Learn from me.” “Learn from me.”

“I am Erzulie.” “I am Kundalini.” “I am Manasa”

“Learn from me.” “Learn from me.” “Learn from me.”

“I am Nilawati. “ “I am Renenutet.” “I am Cihyuacoatl.”

“Learn from me.” “Learn from me.” “Learn from me.”

“I am Rhea.” “Learn from me.”

“I am Astarte.” “Learn from me.”

“Learn from us.”

We were sprinkled with water by each deity. With each drop I felt more of everything – more vital, alive, emotional. My serpent undulations became a dance, an offering of gratitude for the life giving water.

The garden ended at the edge of a sea. Verdia led me into the water. We slipped easily through coral gardens blossoming with living colors, fish flashing fearlessly around us. Verdia stopped before an oyster. The oyster slowly raised open its shell, revealing many pearls. Verdia ate one, and I followed suit. I found I could breathe and move easier in the water.

We traveled deeper, following the ocean floor until all was darkness and I could not see. But I could feel Verdia gliding before me, and felt safe.

Suddenly the mud exploded open before us. A horrible head, red eyes blazing, its scales glowing eerily with phosphorescent slime, reared itself out of the seabed. It lashed with its tail, tossing us through the water in a maelstrom of mud and steaming bubbles. I lost Verdia in the swirling waters.

I landed on the ocean floor, facing another gleaming, gold eye. I squirmed away from it, only to find myself face to face with another, this one black as the ocean depths. Frenzied I fled, trapped in a maze made by the sinuous bodies of many huge serpents. Desperate, I struggled to follow the coils of one, just one, to find an end. The end was a serpent mouth. The serpents began to heave themselves about in a circular dance, like I had danced in the garden. I found myself spinning. I tried to keep looking into the eye of a monster, but it closed its glowing eyes. I became dizzy.

I felt myself buffeted upward, spiraling in the arms of the whirlpool created by the serpents gyrations. I was pushed away on the waves to the surface, helpless, lost, afraid.

After a bit, the sea became calmer, until it was still. I calmed with it, floating on the surface. I could see a smudge on the distant horizon. I began to swim toward it, thinking it to be land. Although I swam languidly, almost lazily, the smudge came quickly closer. As I neared to it I could see it was not land, but misty cloud. I continued toward it. If I stopped it continued steadily toward me. Soon I was lost in a white world of water and mist, alone. So terribly alone.

There was nothing to do but go on so I did. Eventually the mist thinned. To my horror I found myself swimming in the sky! Below me was the coast of the sea, waves foaming around toothy rocks. I froze, and felt myself begin to fall.

Out of nowhere flaming snakes swarmed around me, bearing me upward. They licked me with fiery tongues, a warm tingling on my skin. I found I could fly like they were flying, I only had to keep moving. We went higher and higher. I could see the entire hemisphere below me. A serpent like a rainbow coiled about the earth, embracing it. Snakes like clouds chased each other across the sky. I saw that the corona of the sun was a brilliant serpent.

The flaming serpents led me higher, until earth was but a glowing blue gem in a dark night. Comets whooshed past, radiant cobras with flaming tails. I twined around the silver coils of Draco and Hydra. At last I found my self between the eyes of the Serpent winding through the universe, what I had called the Milky Way when I was human.

“I am Anata. I am Ayida -Weddo. I am Azhi Dahaka. I am Da. I am Atum. I am Julungul, Galeru, Ungur, Wonungur, Worombi, Yurlungeur, Kalseru, Langal, Ungud, Wullunqua, Goorialla, Dhakhan, Ungud, Bobbi-Bobbi, Ulanji, Muit. Learn from me, dust of earth, flicker of starlight.”

The Serpent breathed on me and I found myself back again at the Springs of Castalia, coiled safely and comfortably in a crevice in the rock, entwined with Verdia. I writhed in happiness to be back with Verdia. Verdia writhed with me.

“Welcome home,” said a voice outside our shelter.

We emerged from our hole to find the Gorgon. She held out her hands and we flowed into them. The taste of her skin was like honey. She sat on the stone steps and laid us tenderly in her lap. We were home.

My skin began to itch. The Serpent Queen held out her hand, the forefinger and thumb in a circle. I pulled through it, slipping out of my snakeskin into my human self.

The Gorgon held me in her lap like a child. “Tell me what you saw when you looked at my face.”

My words trembled on my lips. “I saw myself.”

“That frightened you.” A statement, not a question.

I nodded.

“Why?”

That was the question I had been pondering incessantly since I saw myself. Still I had no answers.

“I don’t know.”

The Serpent Queen was silent. Fear had nearly turned me to stone it had so paralyzed me. If I said nothing I knew i would calcify again, I could feel rigidity returning to me as I sat. The longer I was silent the harder I would become, and the harder it would be to face my fears. I breathed deeply.

“Serpents are evil,” my words were barely spoken. I knew the Serpent Queen heard, but she did not recoil from me. “They are demonic. They are sexual license. They strike. They bite and kill. They live alone. They eat their children. They are reptile. They are phallic. If I am serpent then I am these things too.”

“Are you?”

“No! yes, I mean, I could be, if I wanted to be. I don’t want to be, but then I do, sometimes. I wish I could be. Sometimes. Only sometimes…” I jumped up and began to pace the stones of the Springs.

The Gorgon remained silent. I continued on. “The serpent tempted Eve to sin.” There. Inarguable Biblical history. Or so I supposed.

“Is it the fault of the serpent Eve sinned?”

“If it had not tempted her, she would not have sinned and everything would be different.”

“Is it the fault of the serpent Eve sinned? The serpent offered a choice, a choice she always had, the forbidden fruit was already there. The serpent only said aloud what she already knew. Temptation is not sin, though you believe it is, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“You believe because you are tempted to do wrong, want to do wrong, you are as culpable as if you actually did it. Your heart is raw with guilt for things you wanted to do, but did not do, as raw as with the guilt for the times you did strike and bite and harm.”

The Serpent Queen raised her veil again. I looked at my own face, eyes conflagrant with anger. She continued.

“Embedded in the word ‘believe’ is the word ‘lie’. Be very careful of what you believe, that you do not believe lies. They turn you to stone.

“Temptation is not sin. Sin is the choice you make. Temptation is refining fire, it reveals who you truly are. When you choose to yield to temptation you show your quality. When you resist temptation you show your quality. You are correct, the choice one makes changes everything, makes things ‘different’.

“You have yielded to temptation and felt the bite of remorse, seen the harm your choice caused. You have felt the bite of evil, suffering the pain of another’s submission to temptation, destroying your hopes and dreams. You have also chosen to resist. You have chosen to protect others from the pain you have suffered. Those choices have made a difference too.”

I sank down on my knees next to her. She touched me gently on the cheek, her blazing eyes softening. “Forgive yourself for the things you didn’t do.”

“Are serpents evil?” she asked me, her voice like sun on my face.

“No,” I answered, “They are not evil of themselves, but are chosen to be symbols of evil. Not to everyone, but to some. I believed them to be evil.” I thought of Cien Tang and his story of the rebellious dragons. “I don’t any more.”

I sat next to her in silence, lying my head on her lap. The images of my journey with Verdia played themselves through my mind. “Learn from me,” the deities and serpents had said.

“There is more isn’t here?” I asked.

“Yes. There is more. But you will be able to bear it. Remember, you have already survived the things you will remember.”

We rose to leave. As we rose, I reached out for Verdia. She twined herself about my neck. The flicker of her tongue in my ear tickled, and I laughed.

I am flesh again. And I have much to learn.

Sixth day, First Quarter of Goose Moon, Land of Standing Stones

I cannot talk. Ever since I sang for the Gorgon, the Serpent Queen, I have been frozen and mute. I am not wholly turned to stone, my heart still beats and I can move, though very, very slowly and stiffly.

Neither Sybilla or Lucia can hide their worry. They are as mystified as I am to what is wrong. The Gorgon sent the little green snake that looked at me intently at the Banquet. Sybilla tells me it will help me heal. It lies curled by my side. I have become fond of the creature, which amazes me considering I have always feared snakes. This serpent is delicate and beautiful. It’s eyes are bright and intelligent. It’s closeness comforts me.

My cats do not like it. Kitten arches and spits. The snake simply looks at it, and Kitten retreats to its nest on my neck. Tuxedo cat growls a warning and curls on my other side. I lie helpless between the uneasy truce of cat and snake.

Sybilla called the Gypsy King, Lavengro, to bring me to the Land of Standing Stones. He is a handsome man, swarthy as a pirate. His smile is sunlight, his laugh is fire. He moves like the dancer he is. All the way from the Casa to the Land of Standing Stones he regaled me with stories and songs, never minding that I was inert.

We traveled by Gypsy wagon. This will be my home while I stay here in the Land of Standing Stones. The wagon is beautifully painted on the outside. Inside it is as lovely, a cozy and complete home.

This would be an adventure except I cannot move. Lucia has stayed by me night and day. She has to help me with everything, to eat, to dress, comb my hair, to attend to personal needs… I am embarrassed to be so dependent on another. I am ashamed to be so helpless. I am keeping Lucia from her creative tasks. I feel worthless as I am not contributing but am taking.

Lucia massages my body with a medicinal oil to help ease the stiffness, but except for my hands, it has not been effective. I am grateful I can write and read, sew and knit. I am knitting sweaters for Oxfam in lieu of my fancy work. In this way I feel like I am still a vital contributor to the cosmos.

I remember reading about Corrie Ten Boom’s last days of life following a stroke that left her speechless and bedridden. She would pat the cheek of her caregivers and visitors. Those around her knew she was praying for them and came away feeling blessed, feeling loved. I strive to be a blessing to Lucia.

She kisses my cheek and tells me, “It blesses me to care for you.” She hums as she goes about her tasks. Her serenity is a healing balm to my soul.

I once read a book by Christopher DeVynk entitled, “The Power of the Powerless.” It is a collection of essays about how those who can do nothing for themselves, us a gift of incalculable value – the opportunity to prove unconditional love. They are a refining fire for our souls. Lucia’s soul is purest gold.

My helplessness reveals a raw part of myself, the part of me that does not believe I am valuable because I exist.

I tell children who are being bullied, who are frustrated because there is nothing they can do to stop their tormentors, to face the monsters, take a deep breathe, and say, (either to themselves or out loud), “I am valuable because I am alive and I deserve respect.” Then walk away. I tell them mean kids are to be pitied, that it is hurt people who hurt people. Something in their lives makes them hurt others to feel better. Can anything be more pathetic? Making someone else bleed does not staunch the flow of your own bloody wounds. It alienates you from the saving grace of compassion. I teach them that bullies give you the opportunity to show the kind of person you are. Believe you are valuable because you exist. You deserve respect just because you are a human being. Stand firm on those truths. When you can treat those who are mean to you with kindness and respect, then you have crossed the line from childish to mature. Those who keep score and return evil for evil, good for good, have never grown up, no matter how many years they number.

Now I lie here unable to do for myself the simplest of cares. I feel the ugliest emotion in the human repertoire – shame. The shame I feel at being helpless reveals that I do not believe what I teach, I do not believe I am valuable because I exist. I believe I am valuable by what I contribute.

I lie here little more able than a stone. Can I come to a place where I accept myself as a person of worth just because I am and not because I do? It is possible I may never recover. Each day it is harder and harder to massage life into my hands. Each day it is harder to swallow what is fed to me. Can I find peace in being totally helpless? Can I learn to love myself unconditionally?

One day past Last Quater of Owl Moon, Casa del Sybilla

I woke still curled in my chair, the early morning sun on my face. Stiff and sore I creaked upright and stretched slowly. Music came from somewhere, an adagio of some sort, music that slowly wakens. My body stretched to the music. When the lasts notes shimmered on the air, I was awake and renewed.

Lucia and I gave Sybilla our account of the bottle over our morning porridge and fruit. She gently unrolled the scroll. She looked at it a long time, biting her bottom lip, a little line furrowing along her forehead. “This is very old,” she said at last. “The language is an obscure dialect of Romanian. The spelling is strange as well.”

“Do you know what it says?” I asked, trying to suppress my impatience.

“No, but if you give me a day or two, I will find someone who can. The Romance languages all have their roots in Latin. I know many old Latin scholars who would consider the translation of this vellum an honor. I will do what I must to get this story spoken out loud.”

“Grazie, Sybilla,” I said. the relief of knowing the words could be translated overpowered the dismay that it would be two more days, perhaps more, before I will know what the scroll says.

In the meantime, Lucia and I continue the visits Sybilla has ordained for us. That is what it feels likes, each place seems like it is meet to be there.

Several days after Sybilla examined my message in a bottle was the Day of Serpents. Sybilla described the day for me the day before.

“The Day of the Serpents is the day when serpents come from the forest into the house. The awakening of the snakes corresponds with the awakening of nature, the beginning of life, the awakening of creativity and general creative regeneration.

We start this day by shaking the apple trees in the orchard so that they will be bear more fruit. Like the tradition of May baskets, people leave little gifts in unexpected places, little things like decorated eggs, honey pastries, flowers.

At noon the snakes are invited to eat with us. We honor them by letting them take the first taste of the food. The snakes may choose to leave or stay. The guest of honor is the Serpent Queen, one of the legendary Gorgons, with hair of snakes, whose gaze turns men to stone.”

“So the Gorgons are not a myth?” I ask.

“Myths have a kernel of historical truth embedded in them, hidden under layers of symbolism. The Serpent Queen is as real as I am, and a close acquaintance of mine.”

“So she doesn’t turn people to stone?”

Sybilla smiled, “Not recently. She is heavily veiled at the Banquet to prevent such an accident. Everyone who eats at the banquet is given an especially fertile year of creativity. In exchange it is customary to give the Serpent Queen a gift in return. The gift is a token of your creativity, a poem you have written, a song you sing, a dance, a story, a painting, something of yourself.”

I nodded and went to my room to think about little gifts to give and about what to perform or give the Gorgon.

The little gifts were easy. I had been working on little gifts for those I had met, small tokens of affection since my arrival. For Lucia I had embroidered a handkerchief. For Emil of the stables I had knit a pair of creamy wool socks, I could bring ripe apples to my Jenny. To others I had met here in the Casa, I had embroidered and beaded book marks.

It was fun to rise before the sun, and sneak about the Casa grounds, hiding behind pillars, drapes and bushes to avoid others who were also sneaking about delivering little gifts. I felt the impish thrill I did as child creating May baskets of paper cups and doilies, filling them with lilacs and dispersing them about the neighborhood. The same thrill I felt when I belonged to a girl’s club called “Brownies’, the junior adjunct of Girl Scouts, as a gangly sprite in brown uniform. Brownies did anonymous helpful deeds. It felt wonderful.

It was delightful to return to my rooms and find little gifts left for me. I know it was Emil who left a terra cotta image of Epona. I touch the foot of the one in the stables reverently when I visit Jenny, as I have seen him do. I know it was Lucia who left the little round box of Chinese brocade, encircled by fat little Chinese children holding hands, each made from a different jewel color of silk. Inside was a tiny gold Chinese scissors, gold needles, a leather thimble and several skeins of silk floss. There was a new box of tea on the tea caddy and a plate of pastries, a polished stone, several fresh roses, and a letter from my family.

My hands are trembling as I open and read the letter. My husband chooses beautiful stamps to send, knowing I will soak them free of the paper and use them in art later. He has sent photos of our daughter playing under the pines, serving tea to her dollies. He is not good at giving me details of the days, but the swirls of his flamboyant handwriting comfort me. He is himself. When he writes they all miss me, I know it is true. I miss them, but there is something I need that I can only find here in the Casa del Sybilla, and I must find it before I can return home.

Part of the search is today’s Banquet celebrating the Day of the Serpents. I shudder thinking about it. I hate snakes, though I am not sure why. My grandmother hated snakes, I remember her whapping at one with her broom as it wriggled into a crack of the back steps. I stepped on one with bare feet in the apple orchard, and ran screaming into the house. As a mother I abandoned my garden when I found a bull snake in it. Even after the neighborhood bullies killed it, I was afraid to go into the garden. I have never been bitten by a snake, or harmed in anyway by a snake. There are no venomous snakes where I live, there is nothing to fear from them. But afraid I am.

I know the Gorgons have hair of living serpents. That tidbit alone makes me squirm. Desiring to know more about them, I look through the books Lucia has given me. The stories of the Gorgons and their sister Medusa are conflicting and confusing. The scholarly commentaries add layers of meaning I would not have thought of on my own. Each story, each theory makes sense, and then again, doesn’t.

I sift through the images, take copious notes, and am not finished when it is time to go to the Banquet. Unlike most festivities, this Banquet begins at midday rather than sunset. This is because snakes like the warmth of day, and because it will take until dawn to get through the many performances presented to the Gorgon. I am uneasy because I do not know what I will do for my performance. But I have time, something will come to me.

Lucia and I take our places next to each other at the table. The porticoes are thrown open and many tables are set up throughout the gardens, where typically the after dinner dances take place. Seated next to Sybilla on a dais is a tall woman entirely veiled. The only flesh visible is her hands, beautiful hands with long golden finger nails, the fingers flashing brilliant rings. Her gown and veils are many different colors: red, yellow, white, black, sand, green, blue grey. The veils are held in place by a crown shaped like a cobra, much like an Egyptian crown. The sleeves of her gown are encased by snake armbands. The toque about her neck is an Ouborous, as is the golden belt around her waist.

When the sun reachs its zenith, a gong sounds, its mellow tone reverberating through the Casa. As if on cue, thousands of snakes began to writhe languidly among the diners.

I held my hands tightly in my lap to keep from shivering my repulsion, and avoided looking at the tables as the snakes weave their way among the dishes. One snake, pencil thin, the color of new grass, raises itself to look into my face. I return the gaze, its onyx eyes looking intelligently into mine. It tilts its head, as if considering me, then relaxes and slithers away.

I find it difficult to eat food snakes have touched. I sip at my wine and nibble on a piece of bread from the bottom center of the basket. Once my stomach settles, fresh platters of food have arrived.

Lucia and I watch the performances presented to the Serpent Queen. Some are wonderful, some are sputteringly self conscious. I feel keen sympathy for these as I knew my own performance, once I totter up on my shaking knees, will be the same. At the close of some presentations, the queen beckons the performers to her. Those chosen kneel at her feet, then look up. The Gorgon lifts her one layer of her veils. They bow and leave.

Lucia whispers haltingly in my ear, the first words she has ever spoken to me. “If your performance is sincere, the Gorgon will give you a glimpse of herself. It is a blessing and a mystery.”

So many things are blessings. So many things are mysteries.

Lucia brought the Gorgon a blanket she had woven. A beautiful thing of red, black, white, green, and blue. The Gorgon beckoned her and Lucia clasped her feet before looking up. The veil was lifted. Lucia bowed her head again before rising and moving away.

Watching Lucia I find the courage to take my turn. Amazing as I have no idea what I will do until I am standing before The Serpent Queen. My face flushed I begin to sing an arrangement American Negro Spirituals that has comforted me since I learned them and arranged them.

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child -
A long way from home.

Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone.
Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone.
Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone – and so far from home,
oh Lord,
And so far from home.

But I know my Lord is gonna help me along.
I know my Lord is gonna help me along.
I know my Lord is gonna help me along,
And bring me safely home, O Lord,
And bring me safely home.

Lord, Lord, I gots some singing to do.
Lord, Lord, I gots some singing to do.
Lord, Lord, I gots some singing to do,
Don’t take me home, O Lord, too soon.

Lord, Lord, I gots some workin’ to do.
Lord, Lord, I got work to do.
Lord, Lord, I gots some workin’ to do -
Don’t take me home, O Lord, too soon.

Lord, Lord!
Lord, Lord!
Bring me safely home!

I closed my eyes as I sang. Now I open them. The Gorgon is beckoning me to her with her jeweled finger. I bow at her feet, clasping them as I saw Lucia do. I take a deep breath to still my trembling and look up. I am afraid of what I might see, but curious too. Nothing could have prepared me for what I do see – my own face.

The blood drains from my face, and my body goes rigid. It is as if I have been turned to stone. I feel arms around me, helping me to stand, walking me to my room. My mind whirled as my feet stumbled as if made of wood. What does this mean?