The Road to Cyberia, unknown Date, but sometime in autumn

I rose from the water and dressed slowly.  I wondered what to do next.  I am alone, in the woods, without food.  But not without wits.  And with a manifestation of the goddess in the guise of an enchanted doll.  Which, I suppose, is really a symbol of my own strength and cleverness.

I started walking, choosing to follow the sun.

At the end of the day I came to a crossroads.  There, the White Knight of Baba Yaga, waited, his horse pawing the ground impatiently, snorting and huffing.  The knight remained seated calmly.  I could feel his gaze from behind his visor.  My face grew warm with a blush.

At the crossroads was also my little wagon, pulled by Jenny.  I met her deep eyes, she nodded her head, “Yes, you may choose” said her gesture.  

My eyes lingered on the romantic hero on his horse.  Part of me thrilled to go with the White Knight.  I could feel myself being pulled up behind him in the saddle, clasping my arms around his armor, listening to his heart beat through the metal, reverberating with the pounding hooves.  Where would he take me?  What adventure would that choice bring?  Would my dreams come true?

I laughed gently inside myself. I had chosen the knight before, as a young woman, a young bride, believing love would bring me my hearts desire.  In a way, it had.  But I am older now, and my heart’s desire, my dreams are no longer tied to love, to marriage, or family.  I do not know what they are; I only know what they are not. 

Confident I waked to my Jenny.  I stroked her long forehead, and nuzzled into her neck.  I clambered up on the seats and flicked the reins.  Behind me I heard the thunder of hooves, fading quickly in the direction of the sun, my road went south. 

Around the bend, waiting for me, was Lucia and a handsome man holding her hand, Michael, the grandson of Lavengro, Chieftain of the Gypsies.

Jenny halted, turned her head to watch me leap from the driver’s bench and fly to Lucia.  She gave a soft bray, a donkey laugh.  

I held Lucia tightly, cried, laughed, and kissed her head and cheeks and hands.  Dear friend, dearest friend, sister, daughter, Light and guide.  Such joy!  Nothing down the road not taken could surpass this.

Michael I knew little of, meeting him briefly during my stay at his Grandfather’s camp.  Clearly he is beloved to Lucia, and therefore, beloved by me.  Together we climbed aboard my wagon and continued south.

 

I did not note where we were going.  I was too excited to ask or even to care!  At evening we camped by a spring.  I gathered sticks with Lucia and helped her prepare bannock for our dinner.  We cooked them on the rocks by the fire and ate them with windfall apples and pears we gathered along the way. 

The evening was crisp.  It was delight to be wrapped in a shawl, toes toasted by the fire, a cup of tea warming my hands.  Michael played his guitar.  The music of his strumming, the crickets, and the night birds created a symphony of peace.   Soon Lucia and I were helping each other stumble sleepily to the wagon.  We curled under the blankets and slept deeply.

Lucia and I made more bannock and tea to break fast.  Michael was fishing, so we curried Jenny, braiding her mane with ribbons and bells.  When Michael returned we fried the fish, broke camp, and were on our way again. 

Lucia and I spun wool while Michael drove.  He sang as he guided our Jenny.  Before too long I was singing along, at least the choruses.   Such passed fair weathered autumn days. 

Other days were windy and cold.  Those days we walked alongside the wagon huddled in our cloaks to stay warm.  On raining days we rigged a tarp off the side of the wagon nearest the little porcelain stove.  Here our Jenny stood in relative comfort, her ribbons and bells bedraggled.  But better than her contemporaries on the moors, as Michael pointed out.

The wildest days we spent inside, cramped and cozy, the little wagon home.  I cherished these rainy days as much as the fair.  It was then I caught up in this journal on all the happenings of the past months.  I am grateful to Mnemosyne for helping me remember everything with such clarity.

Time passes so quickly to the rhythm and melody of gypsy travel.  By noon, ten days from the crossroads, we arrived at the gates of a great city.

“Welcome to Cyberia, the City of
Ladies,” sang Michael.

“I have never heard of this place,” I responded, more than a little in awe of the beautiful and formidable gates.

“Not surprising.  Very few know of it.  Fewer still can find it.  And fewer still stay.”

Comfortable enough to tease I asked Michael if he had stayed in the City of
Ladies.

“Of course! Men are welcome here, if they are gentlemen.  Women are not welcome if they are not ladies.”

“What makes a lady?  What makes a gentleman?”

Michael flashed a grin.  “That is the question.  What is the answer?”

One worded flashed in my mind, as brilliant as Michael’s smile – integrity.  Nine letters, four syllables and a world of meaning.

Long ago I made four lists: the foolish man, the foolish woman, the wise man, and the wise woman. I jotted down the characteristics of each as found in the Biblical book of Proverbs.  The foolish man and the foolish woman shared the same characteristics, as did the wise man and the wise woman.  The one word that summed up the fools was ‘self indulgent’.  The word which summed up the wise was ‘integrity.’

As a child I was constantly admonished to be a ‘lady.’  What was meant was that I not speak until spoken to, agree with what was told to me, obey immediately and cheerfully without question, do any and all menial tasks without prompting, never feel angry, never disagree, and always, always say please and thank you.  Above all, never give the neighbors any reason to think our family is anything other than respectable, irreproachable.

Those rules of ladyship created a child primed to be a victim.  A safe child to molest.  I could not say no, I must do as told.  I would not tell.  I must obey.

When at last I did tell I was called a liar.  Despite the confession of the perpetrator.  Despite the photos he took of his crime.

I was the criminal.  Whisked away from home and family to foster care.  Never to return to the community, except for holiday visits.  I do not know what reasons for my disappearance were given to the curious.  I know it was not the truth.  Whatever was said maintained the image of irreproachable respectability.

Still, the hiding of facts, the denial of truth, did form a cocoon of protection.  I was spared the stigma of public humiliation.

But inside myself the stigma burned.  The chains of silence bound me to shame.  We do not speak of these things, they are so terrible.  In my culture chastity was extolled as the noblest virtue, once lost it can be regained, once soiled cannot be cleansed.  I viewed myself as damaged goods, worth less.

I accepted gratefully whatever male would have me.  We settle for the love we believe we deserve, not for the love we yearn for so desperately in our deepest hearts.

Such are the consequences of being a lady.

Enter Sarah Crewe, The Little Princess.  Despite scorn, poverty and abuse, she kept her dignity.  Her imagination lifted her above her circumstances.  She continued to behave as a princess.

What is a princess but the popular model of a lady? The biographies and autobiographies of the nobility describe their lives much as mine, prisoners of an image defined by public opinion.  Like me, they are afraid to be authentic, keeping their true selves hidden behind a proper façade. 

What is a lady?  What is a gentleman?  What means integrity? 

The etymology of ‘lady’ is from the Middle English hlfdige a combination of hlaf or bread and dige or kneader of bread.  Lady began as word to define one who provided bread, created bread.  The word evolved to mean a woman with proprietary rights or a woman in authority.  From a woman receiving homage from subservients, the definition expanded to mean a woman receiving homage from a knight or lover.  The definition grew to mean wife, fiancé, mistress, and lover.  The term includes women of superior social position.  In the British tradition of hierarchy it is a title for a marchioness, countess, viscountess, or baroness.  It includes the wife of a knight, a member of the peerage, the daughter of a duke, marquis or earl.  It is used as a courtesy title for all women, any woman.  A woman who has achieved membership in an order of knighthood has earned the title lady.  For me, the meaning which is troubles and trips is the lady who is a model of refinement and gentle manners.

Refinement and gentle manners created a gullible victim.  I don’t want to be rude or crass; I do want to be strong.  

How does ‘lady’ compare to ‘gentleman’?  ‘Lord’, the equivalent to lady is hlaf-ward, guardian of bread.   Lord is equal to Lady, he keeps safe what she creates, the bread from the oven, the babe from the womb, the door of the home.  Original meanings twisted by time, by greed, by hunger for power, for hierarchy.

Gentleman means a man of noble birth, or a man of landed gentry.  It also means a man who combines his birth or rank with chivalrous qualities, his conduct conforms to a high standard of propriety.  Enigmatically, it means both a man who does not have to work for a living, a term of politeness for any man, and a valet, as in a ‘gentleman’s gentleman’.  Like Lady, gentleman can refer to any man with integrity.

Integrity, a noun from the Latin ‘integritas’, ‘integr’, meaning ‘entire’ as in ‘integral’.  Part and parcel, bred in the bone, completeness.   A firm adherence to moral values, a code of right and wrong, incorruptible, sound.  The cornerstone of ladies and gentlemen.  “Her integrity enables her to tell the truth, no matter how difficult.” “He demonstrates integrity by taking responsibility for his actions.”

A lady tells the truth, no matter how difficult. 

I began to become a lady when I stood tall and told the hard truth.  Truth I did not want to face, truth no one wanted to hear.  Truth which shattered the family façade.  Truth which continues to hurt even now.

I grew as a lady as I learned to commingle truth with honest kindness, gentleness, and compassion. 

Integrity demands I admit when I have done wrong.  No lying, no hiding, but facing the truth, no matter how much shame I feel.  Breaking the silence that protected my family from their shame brought retaliation in the form of vilifying me for all I have ever done wrong.  “Well, you did such and such.  What makes you better than us?”

The willingness to admit I am wrong, that I sinned, that I hurt others.  Admission of guilt is the prerequisite for pardon, for mercy, for grace.  It is the requisite for freedom from shame, for peace, for salvation.  Saving grace is conditional upon asking for it.  One will only ask if one knows one needs it. 

Do thy best, and leave the rest for God.

These thoughts competed with the colors, scents, and sounds of Cyberia, the City of
Ladies.  Michael led us to an inn, Il Taverna di Muse.  Climbing roses covered its wall, open windows let in the warm autumn air and let out laughter, the tinkling of glass, and music.  Michael led us inside.  He gave our names and business to the innkeeper, a lovely lady.

“Welcome!” 

Third and Fourth Day at Baba Yaga’s Hut on Chicken Legs, Deep in the Dark Forest

My third day began as the second, rising with the birdsong before dawn, drawing water and heating it.  Baba Yaga flapped out of her bed cupboard, giving me my instructions for the day.  Today I was to dye the thread in every color of the rainbow, in every intensity and shade, in exactly equal amounts.  No indoor tasks today, I was to prepare soil for a garden all along the bone fence.  I was welcome to shear the sheep and prepare wool for my knitting, should time allow.  Don’t forget to mill the flour to make the bread.

 

Then Baba Yaga was off in a flurry of rags, pestle and broom.  My little doll and I shared oat cakes and honey, fruit and tea, before starting our work.  She saw to the dyeing of the thread, and gave me a plow the size of a thorn. 

 

I lingered to watch the red knight saunter past, bringing a rosy dawn.  I plowed until the white knight trotted past, bringing a blue sky of midday.  By then I had turned the soil along the fence breaking clods into fine, rich soil; free of tares, roots and stones.  The soil felt like cool satin under my bare feet. 

 

When the Black Knight thundered past on his steed, bringing Baba Yaga in his wake, the kettle was hot, table set, bread hot out of the oven, and I sat on a stool by the fire knitting away.  My doll had surprised me with the softest of lambs wool dyed all the colors of the rainbow gradually blending into each other.  She also gave me a pair of knitting needles carved from hard oak, and a split oak basket to hold my work.  The wool was soft in my hands, like cloud, and softening to my hands by the lanolin in the wool.

 

Baba Yaga said nothing, which I understood to mean she found no fault with my work.  We ate; I cleaned away the supper dishes, swept up.  Baba Yaga puffed her pipe and scowled at the fire.  I knit contentedly, lost in a world of rainbow soft wool. 

 

“Still no questions for me?” 

 

Baba Yaga’s question startled me out of my reverie.  “No,” I answered. “I am too tired and too content to ask questions.  The question I am trying to answer is ‘Who am I?’ but that is not a question anyone can answer for me except me.”

 

I was quiet for a moment.  “I’ve never been curious, never one to ask why or how or what for.  I like to discover things, in books or by observation on my own.  I never ask personal questions, preferring to let others share themselves at their own discretion, in their own time, in their own way.  Here, in your domain, I see many things I don’t want to wonder about or know more about.  Still, I am grateful you are so willing to answer any question I might have, Grandmother.”

 

Baba Yaga snorted.  “Asking you if you have questions does not imply I will answer them.”     

 

I sat by the fire and knit until my eyes drooped shut.  I think, but am not sure, that Baba Yaga led me gently by the arm and supported me in my stupor to climb my ladder.  I don’t remember curling under my blankets in the nest of my wool stuffed mattress.  But I do remember my dream.

 

I am sitting at my loft window, looking out at the night.  Silver moonlight spills over the landscape, changing it to fairy land.  The wind makes music in the trees, through the grasses, through the reeds along the murmuring river.  Deer, rabbits, and other creatures are frolicking in the meadows beyond the bone fence.  Bats swoop through the sky, black dancers on graceful wings.  My heart pulses in time with the music of the night wind.  I hear the wind whisper, “Dance with me.  Dance with me.”  Without realizing what I am doing, I rise, stepping out of my window into the air.  But I do not fall.  I am whisked away like thistledown in the arms of the wind.  We waltz through the sky until the birdsong of morning awakens me.

 

I am disoriented and confused.  The dream was so real, just a heartbeat ago I was dancing in the arms of mysterious lover, now I am solid and still in my bed in a loft.  Stranger still, my feet throb as if I had been dancing all night.

 

Yawning I climb down my ladder, wincing as my feet bear my weight on the rungs and support me on the wooden floor.  Baba Yaga is awake before me, she sits smirking as I draw water, heat it, and prepare her a breakfast.  She seems to enjoy my limping about on tender feet.  Today she is in no hurry to fly away.

 

“Today I want you to plant the garden with every herb and flower known by a name, any name, by every people in the world.  Use seedlings or seeds or grown plants, but do it.  Arrange them by their medicinal virtues.  Set up the looms for weaving.  Mill the grain for bread and bake it.”

 

I nodded, struggling not to yawn.  Baba Yaga sauntered away, well after the Red Knight on his red horse.

 

I brought out my little doll, declining to have any wine, as I was sleepy enough already.  She brewed me a strong, bitter beverage that helped me perk up.  She spat on my hands and set me to work on threading the looms, and she began work on the gardens.

 

We finished by midday.  I stopped to wave at the White Knight trotting past.  He did not acknowledge me in any way, but I sensed I was recognized. 

 

I slept in my loft until late afternoon, waking in time to set the table and lay out the viands my little doll had prepared before the Black Knight galloped past drawing down the twilight.

 

Baba Yaga whisked in with the dark.  The evening passed as the evening before, Baba Yaga asked me if I had questions, which I did not.  I went to bed before I was stupid from exhaustion. 

That night I had the same dream, dancing in the arms of the wind through the moonlit meadows and woods, across the sky, over the sea.

 

When I woke I was stiff and sore, though less so than the day before.  And there were leaves in my hair with an elusive scent, one I remembered from my dream.  Do we smell in our dreaming?

 

I dressed and climbed down from my loft, preparing tea and stewed fruit to top our morning porridge.  Baba Yaga instructed me to weave cloth today, in patterns never before seen anywhere on earth, using all the thread I had spun and dyed.  Of course gardening and housekeeping were assigned as well. 

 

My little doll spat on my hands again, and I began to weave.  “Think of everything that gives you pleasure, and simply weave.  What you make will be as unique as your fingerprints, as the iris of your eyes.  I’ll take care of the drudge work.”

 

And so I wove, humming to myself, dreaming of dancing with the wind, of the feel of my yarn in my hands as I knit.  I thought of the sweet wine and fresh bread, of honey and ripe berries.  I conjured back the memories of my grandfather and the smell of his cherry tobacco.  Other faces came to mind, at each image my heart leapt in recognition.  I knew these were people I loved.  I thought of the Knights of Red, White, and Black, their nobility astride their magnificent horses.  I thought of colors, of loving, the scent of spice, the darkness of pine forests, autumn mists rising form woodland lakes…

 

My thoughts wandered, from peaceful scene to peaceful scene.  I hummed as I wove, singing snatches of half remembered songs.  The rhythm of the shuttle was as the purring of a cat in my lap, soothing and enchanting me. 

 

By the time the White Knight rode past, slowing to nearly a stop, I was finished.  I spread the cloth out on the ground, admiring its beautiful patterns and colors.  I wrapped it around me like a sari, and began to dance and laugh and sing.

 

Baba Yaga arrived home early, while I was spinning in whirling ecstasy wrapped in my cloth.

 

“You are finished.  Fold up the cloth and bring it in to me.”  Baba Yaga entered the hut on chicken legs as one to the manor born.

 

I slowly unwound the cloth from my body and folded its kaleidoscopic beauty into a neat bundle.  Slowly I walked to the hut, wriggled myself inside and stood.  I held out my beautiful cloth to Baba Yaga.  She grabbed it and threw it into the fire.

 

I gasped and sprang to the hearth to retrieve it, but it was too late.  The fine wool cloth burned quickly, and I burned my hands for my folly.  My hands stinging from the flames and eyes stinging from tears of shock and grief, I sputtered out my first question, “Why?”

 

Baba Yaga’s smile was twisted.  “Ah, at last, you have asked a question!  I might answer you, but first you must answer a question for me.  How is it that you, a mortal, can complete the tasks which not even I, an immortal, could complete?”

 

I remembered Bluebird Woman’s admonition that Baba Yaga accepted only the truth, and my doll’s warning she could not be fooled with a lie.  “Bluebird Woman gave me a little doll.  I feed her and give her drink, and she helps me.”

 

Baba Yaga erupted with fury.  “You despicable little cheater!  Leave at once!  Go, get out of my sight!”

 

I glimpsed my little doll at the edge of the doorway and grabbed her as I ran past.  Baba Yaga threw coals at me as I ran past.  The gate flew open letting me free.  I ran as if my life depended on it, as perhaps it did.  Baba Yaga did not give chase.  At last I fell breathless, weeping, under an oak.

 

I felt the tremor of my little doll in my pocket.  I pulled her out, and gave her a crumb of bread from my pocket, a drop of water from a dewy leaf.

 

“What happened?” I rasped, between pants for air.  “What was wrong?  I did everything she asked of me.  Why did she say I cheated?  She never prohibited me from having help…”

 

“You didn’t cheat.  Baba Yaga has given you a gift.  Let’s get up into the tree and sleep.  Things will be better in the morning, and you will be able to think better then.”

 

So we spent the night in the tree, or at least I think we did.  I remember falling asleep, and I remember looking at the stars glimmering through the leaves of the oak.  The wind stirred the leaves gently.  I heard Wynd whisper, “Dance with me.  Dance with me.”  Strange, the mysterious dance partner did not have a name last night…

 

I gave my hand to the air and was swept away in a waltz, until I awoke in the tree to the music of birdsong, stiff and sore.

 

The little doll helped me find wild edibles for our break fast.  We drank at a gurgling streamlet, bubbling up through wintergreen from the earth.  Nothing ever tasted so refreshing. 

 

We walked along, the stiffness working itself from my body.  We came to a hot spring and I bathed in the sulfur heat, thinking of Baba Yaga and what gift she had given me.  My little doll sat by my head, combing my hair.

 

“Can you give me a hint?”  I asked, half serious and half teasing.

 

“Yes.  Baba Yaga knew I was with you all along, because I am a part of her as she is a part of me.  We are both faces of the Goddess.”

That clue did not help, except to reassure me that my little doll was honest saying I did not cheat.  But if I did not cheat, why had Baba Yaga say I did cheat?  My little doll said she gave me a gift. 

 

So I listed what I did know.  I completed everything Baba Yaga told me to do, and completed it well, with out cheating but with the help of my little doll which is a facet of the Goddess, as is Baba Yaga.  Yet, Baba Yaga was not satisfied and sent me away.  She burned my beautiful cloth, and my knitting was lost to me as well.  I wanted to pout.

 

“Why did she burn the cloth?”  I asked my little doll.

 

“To trick you into asking a question.  As long as you did not ask her a question, she could not ask you a question.  She knew all along you are reticent to ask questions, especially if you are afraid.”

 

That seemed more than I knew about myself.  But my little doll was right; I was timid to ask Baba Yaga questions.  She is dangerous, after all.  I did not hesitate to ask any question of my little doll, for she was so loving and helpful.  Still, I knew asking her what the gift Baba Yaga gave through her inexplicable behavior was a question she could not answer.  Somehow I knew the answer was linked to the fundamental question: Who am I?

 

Soaking in the hot water, feeling the in and out of my breathing, the soothing brushing of my hair, the sound of the water and the music of small birds, I was lulled into the land between waking and dreaming.  The in-between place where answers lie waiting.

 

I remembered myself as I was, trying to be perfect so that I might be worthy of love.  And failing, for I cannot be perfect.  For Baba Yaga I had been perfect, and still was discounted.  If perfection made me worthy of love, Baba Yaga should have loved me, not rejected me.  My little doll loved me without asking perfection, willingly helping me to succeed. 

 

So what is the gift? 

 

Perfection, or lack thereof, has nothing to do with my value.  I deserve love simply because I exist.  Those who make performance conditional to loving me do not love me.  Love accepts the beloved with out demanding they meet expectations.  I can let go of trying so hard to measure up.  I can accept myself and my best efforts as good enough.  I can choose to love those who cannot love me.  Gratitude welled in my heart to Baba Yaga, and to my little doll.

 

A saying rose in my mind, and I spoke it aloud.  “You like someone because, you love someone although.”

 

“Yes,” whispered my little doll.  “You understand.”

Second day at Baba Yaga’s Hut on Chicken Legs, Deep in the Dark Forest

The first trills of the morning birds woke me.  I dressed and descended my ladder with dignity this morning.  I started the fire in the hearth, and fetched water from the well for tea, before Baba Yaga emerged from her cupboard over the fireplace.

 

She snorted when she saw me. 

 

“Follow me.”

 

I trotted behind her into the yard.  “Besides spinning the wool into thread, fine thread, mind you, I want you to re-thatch the roof, re-stain the timbers and whitewash the walls.  Clean the chimney as well. I expect it completed by my return. Bake the bread, too, but today you will have to mill the flour.”

 

Before I could ask “What is whitewash?” she was up and away in her mortar and pestle, sweeping her tracks behind her. 

 

Entering the dancing hut on hen’s legs was getting easier.  My little doll and I supped on tea, bread and cheese.  She assumed the work on the hut and gave me a spindle no bigger than a dill seed for my spinning.  Considering the incredible job the infinitesimal combs did yesterday, I had no qualms about my success.

 

I entered the wool barn as the Red Knight was passing, at a steady canter today.  I stopped to watch his passing.  And admire the imposing, regal figure he made bringing dawn to the dark.

 

Spinning was complete by the time the White Knight rode past on his gleaming white horse.  I stood bug eyed and watched him pass.  His beauty rendered me wordless.

 

My faithful doll had completed the tasks of thatching, staining, whitewashing, chimney sweeping, and bread baking.  Had the hut not been strutting about on those hideous chicken legs, it would be a quaint little place.  All it needed was roses blooming about it, and an herbal garden surrounding it. 

 

My doll helped me bathe in a tub of fragrant, hot water. We washed my clothes in the leftover water, the stains coming out of my apron like magic.  My doll then combed my hair while my clothes hung to dry on the bone fence. 

 

Well before Baba Yaga returned I had the table set and the kettle boiling. 

 

The old hag clattered in as the Black Knight galloped past.  The stars were hidden by thick curtains of storm.  Thunder made the house jump, lightning illuminated the yard.  Baba Yaga stirred some foul smelling fungi into her cauldron, muttering in her growling rasp of a voice words that made my scalp prickle.    

 

Fortunately we did not eat from the pot this evening.  Its foul stench made eating the sweet fruit, oat porridge, and thick cream difficult.  I ate what was placed before me without complaint.

 

After washing dishes and sweeping up, I joined Baba Yaga by the fire.  She puffed away at her pipe, glowering at me.  “Well, any questions for me?”

 

“Yes, I’d like to know if I might knit in the evenings here by the fire.”

 

Baba grunted.  I took that for assent.  I rose, curtsied, “Good night, Grandmother.”  And retired.  I found my bed strewn with fresh lavender, welcome and soothing relief from the stench still wafting in from the cauldron.  I was grateful the chicken legs had danced my window away from it.

 

I undressed, wrapped myself up in lavender fresh blankets, and listened to the wind song and star song lull me asleep.

 

 

 

 

First day at Baba Yaga’s Hut on Chicken Legs, Deep in the Dark Forest

Banging and shouting woke me.  The sky was still dark, but the morning chorus of birds was well begun.  Baba Yaga stood at the foot of the ladder yelling reveille, banging a spoon on a pan.

 

I dressed quickly, clambered down the ladder, falling at Baba Yaga’s feet, breathless. 

 

“By the time I return I want this hut free of dust, not a single speck anywhere.  The cups are silver, polish them.  Not a smidgeon of tarnish should remain.  Bake bread.  And card the wool you find in the shed.”

 

Baba Yaga flew out the door into her mortar and was away before I drew a breath.

 

My little doll peered out of my pocket.  “Well, we can’t work on empty stomachs.”

 

We toasted bread over the fire and made tea.  As we ate my little doll gave me the plan to tackle the chores.

 

“Leave the indoor tasks to me.  You card the wool.”  She pulled out something form her pocket and put it on the tip of my finger.  “Use these combs to card the wool.”

 

I could barely see the combs, and doubted they would be much help, but what is the sense in questioning a talking doll that just happens to have the necessary tool for the task in her pocket?

 

I took myself out of the dancing house to the shed behind it.  Palatial estate might have been a better word to describe the building I found.  It was full to bursting with bales of very dirty, tangled, wool, as much debris as wool.  I hoped Baba Yaga would not return until the next millennium that I might have enough time to complete the task.  Instinct told me I had until dark at best.

 

I sat on a stool by the door and began to comb, as the Red Knight galloped past bringing the sunrise with him.   I was finished by the time the White Knight cantered past with the midday sun.  The shed was full of smooth, clean rolags of soft wool.  The colors ranged from the purest white to deep black and brown, and every shade between. 

 

Impulsively I climbed to the top of the shed and jumped into the wool, as I used to do in my grandfather’s hay loft.  More memories came back to as I lay in the wool, breathing its lanolin scent, as sweet as fresh hay in Grandpa’s barn. 

 

When I woke, it was to the clatter of mortar and pestle in the yard.  I scrambled through the wool to the door in time to meet Baba Yaga nose to nose.  Her breath is fetid.  I gagged and staggered out of her way.

 

“I see the wool is carded.  Let me see the house.”

 

As if I could prevent her!  She stomped across the yard to the door, jumped nimbly up to the threshold and in the door.  I stumbled behind her.  The inside shone, the cups gleamed bright, and the bread was steaming in a basket on the table.  The table was set for two, shining silver tankard, wooden bowl and spoon. 

 

Baba Yaga grunted.   Through the open door I saw the Black Knight trot past, trailing stars behind him.

 

We sat down to supper as we had the night before.  After supper we gathered round the hearth and watched the flames.  Baba Yaga puffed away at her pipe and I caressed the memories of being a child on a farm, climbing lilac bushes and collecting dandelions.

 

“Don’t you have questions?”  Baba Yaga’s voice was harsh as skin scraped across stone.

 

“Yes, but I haven’t really thought them over.  Some I think I have figured out.”

 

“Really?”

 

“I think so, the Knights.  The Red Knight is sunrise, the White Knight Noonday, and the Black Knight is nightfall.”

 

“You surmise correctly.  Anything else you wonder about?”

 

“Yes, but I want to think about them more.”

 

“So think.”  Baba Yaga snorted.  “Go to bed.  You will be as busy tomorrow as you were today.”

 

I climbed the ladder to the loft.  Tonight my mattress was stuffed with wool.  It was like sleeping on a cloud.  Again, I cuddled myself into the warmth of bed and blanket, gazing out the window, listening to the wind until I fell asleep.

Unknown Date, Baba Yaga’s Hut on Chicken Legs, Somewhere in the Dark Forests

Sleeping in a tree may be safest, but it is also very uncomfortable.  I awoke aching in every limb.  I clambered down from the oak with difficulty.  I broke my fast with my little doll, and then trudged onward through the dark forest.

 

After hours of walking I smelled the putrid scent of sulfur in the air.  Following my nose I came to a hot spring gurgling over rocks, illuminated by a sickle moon.  I shed my clothes and pack and worries to soak in the steaming water.  I closed my eyes and sighed.  Every kink in my body melted away. 

 

There may be troubles a hot bath won’t soothe, but I don’t know what they may be.

 

At least I didn’t until I stepped out of the spring and looked up to see Baba Yaga.

 

She looked just like my doll described her.  Her scent made the sulfur spring smell delicious.  She leered at me, her grin showing me her terrible iron teeth.  Worse, she had the advantage of being clothed while I stood dripping and skyclad before her.  Not that her clothes had much to commend themselves, they were dingy and grey.  My doll forgot to mention the necklace of little skulls around her neck.  Were they the skulls of spider monkeys or miscarried babies?  I shuddered thinking of it.

 

I sighed, and dipped a curtsy.  “Well met, Grandmother,” I said.

 

“Well, then, follow me if you are so eager to visit.”  Her voice rasped and grated like a rusty hinge on a heavy door. 

 

Hastily I gathered up clothes and pack and hurried after her.  She flew through the air within her mortar, punting with the pestle.  I could barely keep up, yet I understood she was allowing me to follow her. 

 

As I ran I was passed by a knight in red armor astride a red horse.  As he passed the sky began to lighten.  When the sun broke over the horizon, I was passed by a white knight upon a white horse.  They looked noble and formidable.  They passed without a glance at me.  I wondered who they were.

 

We arrived at her hut on chicken legs when the sun was high.  By then I was scorched as well as scratched from head to toe.  Baba Yaga flew over her fence and landed in her yard.  I was outside the fence looking at the gate as if it might bite.  Indeed it looked like it would.

 

Baba Yaga said nothing, but looked at me.  Carefully I took the skull holding tight the leg bone which made up the fence post between my hands and tried to pull it open.  Nothing.  I had a sense the skull was chuckling, and the skulls atop the fence posts were gazing at me for amusement.

 

I picked up a thick stick from the ground and levered it between the teeth to pry the jaws open.  The skull bit the stick in half.  I tried a bone I found lying nearby.  The bone splintered. 

 

I glanced at Baba Yaga.  The wrinkles on her face hid all expression.

 

I found a stone that fit securely in my hand and pounded on the skull.  The teeth snapped open, releasing the gate to admit me.   Once inside, I heard a crack behind me.  The sound could only be the gate closing once more.  I would not be able to leave until allowed by my hostess.

 

Baba Yaga shoved a bag into my already full arms. 

 

“Here.  Peel these, chop them into pieces no bigger than a grain of sand, and dump them into the brew.”  She jerked her head in the direction of a cauldron. 

 

Before I could ask, “Where is a knife?”  she was in the house, the door slammed closed hard behind her.

 

First, I dressed.  Then I took out my little doll and we shared a bit of bread, cheese, oil and wine.

 

“Did you hear her order?”

 

“Yes,” answered my doll.  “Peel with your fingernails and leave the chopping to me.”

 

The roots were the size of my fist with thick waxen skins enclosing a rubbery ruby center.  They peeled like an orange.  I don’t know how they chopped as my little doll would not let me see her at work.  It did not take long to fill my apron with the sand-like choppings.

 

I shook my apron out over the pot, sighing at the dark red stains left on my apron.   Just as I finished Baba Yaga came flying out of the house.  She grabbed the wooden ladle near the cauldron and began to stir.  Seven times clockwise, seven times widdershins. 

 

Baba Yaga looked at me.  “Don’t just stand there.  Take the peelings to the pigs.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

As directed I picked up the peelings into my apron and went round the hut to a pig sty.  The peelings left a garish green stain on my apron. 

 

I returned to Baba Yaga.  “How else may I serve you, ma’am?”

 

Baba Yaga grunted.  “Go in the house and check the bread in the oven.  If it is ready, take it out.”

 

Getting into Baba Yaga’s house is not easy.  The chicken legs must be from some prehistoric, dinosaur chickens, as the threshold of the door came to just above my waist.  Then too, the house moved about a good bit.  Make those prehistoric, dancing dinosaur chickens.

 

I took a running jump and managed to pull myself into Baba Yaga’s famous hut.  It took a moment to get used to the movement, rather like getting one’s sea legs aboard ship.  The hut was comfortable inside.  The wooden floor was covered by rag rugs.  The one window looked out to the bubbling cauldron.  Under the window stood a table and two chairs.  The table was set for two- bowl, tankard and spoon.  Above the brick oven was a closet bed, straw stuffed mattress covered with homespun blankets and down pillows.  Across from the table was a ladder leading to a loft.  Next to the ladder was a cupboard. 

 

I crossed to the oven and looked for hot mitts to open it.  There were none.  I wrapped my hands in my gown and apron to pull open the oven door without harm.  The bread was in small round loaves that I grabbed quickly, dropping them into my apron.  Now I had soot stains to go with the red and green.

 

I set the loaves on the table.  As I did so Baba Yaga flew into the room.  She carried a steaming pot of something.  It smelled like the earth after a rain.  She ladled it into the bowls and sat. 

 

“Aren’t you going to sit down?”  she asked sarcastic. 

 

I sat.  I looked uncertainly at the red broth before me, chunks of unidentifiable somethings floating languidly in it.

 

“One bite won’t kill you.”

 

One bite did not kill me, nor did finishing the whole bowl.  The stew was tasty and satisfying.  After eating Baba Yaga directed me to fetch a pail of water from the well.  While I winched the bucket up from the depths of the well, I saw a knight in blue black armor on a black stallion canter past.  As he passed the twilight followed him and stars blossomed in the sky.

 

 Back inside Baba Yaga instructed me on washing the dishes.  After drying them and putting them away in the cupboard, I joined Baba Yaga at the hearth, pulling up the chair I used at supper.

 

Baba Yaga was smoking a pipe.  From it floated the sweet smell of cherry tobacco.

 

“My grandfather smoked cherry tobacco in his pipe,” I said, surprising myself.  First at speaking to my terrible hostess and second at remembering my past.  Baba Yaga made no reply, and I closed my eyes and lost myself in memories of my grandfather.   

“Well, aren’t you going to ask me anything?”

 

There were many things I wanted to ask, but not before I thought about them very carefully.  Did I really want to know from whence came the skulls strung about her neck?  Probably not.  And I was tired.  And I was irked that my pleasant reverie about my grandfather was interrupted.

 

Remembering Bluebird Woman’s warning that Baba Yaga was angered by untruth, I answered honestly.

 

“There are many things I would like to ask.  But I am tired and confused.  What I want to know most right now is where am I to sleep and may I go to my rest now?”

 

Baba Yaga made a chortling sound.  She waved her pipe at the ladder to the loft.  Taking her gesture as assent, I stood and curtsied goodnight. 

 

The loft was large enough to hold a straw stuffed mattress.  It was covered by soft cotton sheets and homespun wool blankets.  At the head of the bead was a small window covered by a shutter.  I opened the shutter and looked out at the stars.  The moon was a half moon, but I was uncertain as to the season.  In this place the plants were in bud, blossom, fruiting and rest at the same time.  Likewise the weather could be hot, balmy, chill or downright freezing.  Sometimes I saw whole meadows or forests of snow, yet deciduous plants would be unfurling green leaves despite the frost.

 

Looking at the serene stillness of the stars, listening to the voices of the night soothed my heart.  I undressed, hanging kirtle, apron, and petticoat on a peg at the foot of the loft.   My little doll ministered to my burned skin and many scratches with a salve she had in her miniscule pocket.  The jar may not have been any larger than a poppy seed, but it held enough ointment to smooth over my entire body.  I wrapped myself in the blanket and drifted asleep gazing out my window, listening to the wind.

 

 

Unknown date, the Road to Baba Yaga’s

Unknown Date, The Road to Baba Yaga’s

 

The music of the

Island of
Ancestors, the voices of the women whose lives gave birth to my own, haunted me.  I did not talk on the way back to the mainland.  Anita Marie was sensitive to my mood and shared my quiet.  I did not hear the tale of her decapitated friend, perhaps another time.

 

Bluebird Woman and Wren Woman were quiet as well.  I spent the morning pondering the story my ancestor gave me, the retelling of the Creation myth of Genesis in language and order very different from the King James Version. 

 

One of the few things I recall from college Anthropology is creation myths are vitally important because they provide the paradigm upon which the entire culture is based.  I compared this new story with the old.  The first obvious difference was the gender neutral language.  

 

What would life be like if God were whole?  The popular male god is diminished because half of itself is denied to exist.  Male and female are both The HOLY ONE.  To be blunt a skewed vision of god is a screwed vision. 

 

But what has that to do with who I am?

Sitting on a stone bench in the shade of an apple tree, my thoughts drifted with the fluttering of sun between leaves.  My thoughts flowed like water over stones.  My heart opened like clouds of rain.  And I just knew.

 

“I am created in the image of The HOLY ONE.  I am loved by the ONE WHO MADE ALL.  Because The HOLY ONE WHO MADE ALL THINGS created and loves me, I have worth simply because I exist.”

 

This is who I am.  Beloved.  Human.  Valuable.

 

I sat until evening, basking in the all encompassing love of The HOLY ONE.   I meditated on the identity of The HOLY ONE.  Goddess.  God.  Neither.  Both.  Life giver.  Life taker.  Hope.  Seasons turning and returning.  Being born.  Being born again.  Immanent.  Transcendent.  Infinite.  Eternal.  Temporal.  Ephemeral.  Everything.  Always.  Everywhere.  Everywhen.  Ever within.  Without beginning.  Without end.  This infinite power created me.  This infinite heart loves me.

 

The song of my Ancestors swelled in my heart to flow out of my mouth.  I sang until I could sing no more.  I danced as I had never danced before, not the dignified, worship dance of the

Island of
Ancestors, but a jubilant dance of praise.  I danced until I could not dance more. Then I sat still, resonating with the echoes of the Music of the Spheres, my heart pounding the rhythm of Creation’s Dance.

 

Bluebird Woman and Wren Woman came to me, holding out their hands and smiling.  I rose and went to them.

 

“You know who you are.”  Their happiness for me shone from their faces. 

 

“Yes.  I know who I am.  I do not know my name; I do not remember who I was.  But I know who I am.”

 

Wren Woman pulled a small hand mirror from her pocket.  “Look.”

 

I looked.  My hair was grown to my shoulders.  It was the radiant copper of my ancestor.  It was my hair and it was beautiful.

 

We sat in the garden to eat a simple supper.  I sat on the ground between them.  Bluebird Woman stroked my hair as we ate.  They fed me apples, bread, cheese and wine, placing each tidbit in my mouth with their own hands.  I lay my head on Wren Woman’s knee, exhausted and ecstatic.  We watched the sun set and the moon rise, full of pregnant light as my heart was full of love.

 

Bluebird woman sighed.

 

“Dear one, it is time for you to go.  You are wholly healed now.  You can continue your journey.”

 

“Go?”  I didn’t understand.

 

“Go.” Wren Woman was firm in her reply.  “You need to go back over the mountains into the dark

forest of
Baba Yaga.”

 

“Baba Yaga?”  The name was familiar, but I could not recall how.

 

“Baba Yaga is a hag, hagia, a wise woman,” Bluebird Woman explained.  “Her name means ‘to know, to see, to foresee’ in Russian.”

 

“She’s a witch and dangerous,” snorted Wren Woman.

 

“Yes, that too,” agreed Bluebird Woman, drawling out the words as she thought them over.  “Wise Women are dangerous, sometimes, if you aren’t honest with them.”

 

Bluebird Woman reached in to her pocket and pulled out a small doll.  The doll was smaller than a coin, pale with dark eyes and rose-red mouth.  Golden hair was crowned with a white lace headdress as Russian folk heroines wore.  It wore shimmering white, moonbeams woven with gossamer.  On her feet were gold slippers.  She quivered when Bluebird Woman laid her in my palm.

 

“I give you this doll with my blessing.  She will guide you, advise you.  Feed her when she is hungry.  Give her drink when she is thirsty.  Keep her close and keep her secret.  Ask her anything, and she will answer with truth.  Plain truth, no oracles.”  Bluebird Woman chuckled.

 

Wren Woman helped me to my feet.  She gave me a bag.  “Here.  These are provisions for your journey.  They will last you until you get to Baba’s.” 

 

They walked with me up the mountain path to the peak. 

 

“Well, here we leave you.”  Wren Woman was matter of fact.  “Walk at night and sleep by day, you cannot find Baba Yaga in the light.”

 

“How do I find her?”  I asked.

 

“Just follow your nose.  It is rather hard to not find Baba Yaga, even when you would rather not.”  Wren Woman answered.

 

“Blessed be, my dear.”  Bluebird Woman kissed my cheek. 

 

Wren Woman hugged me fiercely.  “Blessings upon you.”

 

With my little doll tucked safely in my pocket, a bag of provisions over my shoulder, I carefully worked my way down the mountain in the darkness. 

 

I walked until day break.  I found a venerable oak and climbed up into its gnarled branches until I was hidden away in a nook behind branches.  I opened my pack and found wine, bread, cheese and oil.  As I began to eat, I felt a quivering in my pocket.  The little doll!

 

I pulled her out, apologizing profusely.  Then I gave her bread and oil and a little wine. 

 

“Thank you.”  Her voice was clear and melodic, like water rippling over stones.

     

“You are very welcome.”  I looked at her until she blushed.  I apologized again.

 

“I must seem very rude,” I felt as if my mouth were full of marbles.  “It’s just that you are so remarkable, so tiny and so perfect.  I can’t help but admire you.”

 

“I understand,” the little doll murmured.

 

“Can you tell me about Baba Yaga?”  I asked, eager to change the subject from my ineptitude to something more cheerful.

 

“Oh, yes,” she replied.  “Baba Yaga is evil and ugly.  She is ancient old, older than god, older than dirt.  She is very tall, and bone thin.  Her eyes are jet black, and her vision is very good.  She can tell the difference between a she flea and a he flea at fifty paces.  Hair grows out of her ears, but she can hear a snowflake fall.  She understands the speech of every living thing, plant and animal, and things that are not living as well – the stones, water, wind and fire.  Her nose is like the beak of a vulture, her chin pointed as a spear.  She is gnarled and grey.  She has never bathed and stinks of decay.  What little hair she has is matted and greasy. Her hands are covered in warts, her feet with corns.  Her fingernails are long and jagged.  You don’t want to know what is encrusted under those nails.  Her teeth are iron and spark when she gnashes them.

 

“Baba Yaga is a Black Goddess.  She cannot die and cannot be fooled.  She eats children and drinks blood.  She commands the sun and it obeys her, she changes the stars in their course, she causes clouds to form in the air and makes it possible to walk on them and travel the country. She can transform herself into anything.  She can turn herself into a young woman and then, in a twinkling of an eye turn herself back into an old woman.   She likes to transform into toads, snakes, flies.  She has to the power to turn people into animals.

“She travels hither and yon in a mortar propelled by its pestle, and covers her tracks with her broom.  She travels freely over the world and gathers herbs and other things for potions.  She casts spells, discovers secrets for blackmail.  She is wise, and if she befriends you there is no better ally.  If you offend her there is no escaping her doom.

 

“Her house is on chicken legs, it travels through time and place.  It is surrounded by a fence of human and animal bones and skulls.  The gate is latched with a skull clenching tight its teeth.  Her cauldron boils in the yard day and night.   To be sent to Baba Yaga is to be sent to your death.”

 

The little doll looked at me.  “But you have faced her.  You have died and been reborn.  You have nothing to fear, as long as you treat Baba Yaga with the respect due an elder.”

 

The doll looked at me again, as if to gauge my soul.  “Yes, you have nothing to fear.  Respecting others, even the mean spirited, is imprinted on every fiber of your being.  You will succeed.  If you need help, I will help you.”  

 

“I have faced her before?”  I was staggered, as if the little doll had hit me over the head with a rock rather than spoke to me quietly.

 

“Yes, when you met Ereshkigal.  When everything you were was taken away.”

 

“Oh.”  I was tired and my head hurt.

 

The little doll looked at me with empathy in her eyes.  “Be at peace.  When you gave up everything you were, it left everything you are.  Let us rest now.  Night will be here too soon.”

 

“When do you think we will find Baba Yaga?”

 

“Tonight at the soonest, seven nights hence at the latest.”

 

“Thank you.” 

 

I curled with in the tree branches as best I could, pondering what the little doll told me.  At last sleep overcame me, and I had one more night of peaceful sleep.

Unknown date, Returned to Bluebird Woman and Wren Woman’s House after visiting the Island of Ancestors

It was hard to leave the cottage of Bluebird Woman and Wren Woman.  I dawdled through the day, caressing each flower in the garden, inhaling the fragrance of each herb.  I worked slowly at each homey task, as if each were a prayer.  In a way I suppose it was.  After lunch I heated water over the hearth, bathed and put on my clothes.  I owed my life to these kind women, and had no way to thank them.

Each took a hand as we walked the miles to Duwamish Quay.  We walked slowly, saying little.  Bluebird Woman hummed sweet melodies, as was her wont.  The shops were closing, the streets were empty of the usual bustle of commerce.  We made our way to the docks, where the ferries were lined up. 

Ferry Women sat conversing with each other.  Some were roasting apples over a barrel.  Others sat at the bow of their boats whittling or whistling.   Some puttered aboard their vessels.  A few called to me to take their ferry across the bay.  Others ignored me completely.  I remembered what Wren Woman told me, one would be a kindred spirit.  I just didn’t expect her to have purple hair and a pierced nose. 

She ginned at me.  I grinned back.  Wordlessly she held out her hand, calloused but her nails were impeccably manicured, polished black with purple lightning bolts and tiny jewels.  She cast off, the nails not interfering with her skillful handling of her craft.  

I hugged Bluebird and Wren Woman one last time, kissing both the soft cheek and the hard.  “Thank you,” I whispered, squeezing one last time. 

“Blessing be to you, dear,” they replied in unison.  I waved and watched them until the dock was lost from sight.  Then I turned to the grinning Ferry Woman.

“Welcome aboard the Calabar Felonway.”  Her welcome was accompanied by a bewitching smile.  “I am Captain Anita Marie.  You, I understand, have no name?”

I found myself smiling back, feeling as if having no identity was nothing out of the ordinary.  “You are correct, I have no name.  But I hope I will learn it on the Isle of Ancestors.”

“If you don’t learn it there, you won’t learn it anywhere. Canny place, the Isle of Ancestors.”

“What do you know of the
Island?”

“Never set foot on it myself.  Hate to think what the Ancestors would make of me!  The Ancestors-to-be tend to be a bit conventional in their thought.  Hell, they’re rigid traditional.  There are shelves full of photographs going back to the invention of the camera of stuffy ancestors back home.”

“There must be one radical among them.  After all, doesn’t every generation have its black sheep?”

“Possibly,”  Anita Marie looked as if she was thinking about it.  “But why tempt fate?  You have a good reason to go.  Me, I’m happy as a piranha on painkillers.”

We talked about everything and nothing.  I feasted on looking at her.  Purple hair and carnelian lips.  The jewel in her nose a ruby.  She had a skull and crossed bones tattoo on her right hand.  Her Missouri River Boatman shirt, Folkwear pattern #204, was purple silk, sashed with a multicolored woven belt.  From which hung a heavy leather bag and a shrunken head hanging by its hair.  Her legs were encased in supple black leather.  Bright red boots rose past her knees.  I caught a glimpse of a jeweled hilt of a dirk peeking out of each.  Besides the nose ring, she had multiple ear piercings, each sporting a jewel of a different color.  “I have my belly button pierced,” she confided, “But I draw the line at my tongue or eyebrows.  One can be too latitudinarian.”   She wore many bangle bracelets, and interesting pendants on interesting chains.  But no rings.  “They catch on things.”  Her jewelry made a wind chime sort of music as she poled us across the bay.     

The night was clear.  The waxing, near full moon shone brilliant in the sky.  It was no more brilliant than the innumerable stars.  I could see the Isle of Ancestors coming ever closer.  It seemed too soon that we arrived. 

Anita Marie tied her barge to the
Island dock.  She helped me out and up.  I pressed the gold coin Bluebird Woman gave me into her hand.  She clapped me on the back with gusto.  “Good luck and fair winds to ye.  When you come back, I’ll be waiting.  I’ll tell the story of my little friend here,” she tapped the shrunken head with the gold coin, “on the homeward trip.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

I laughed and waved and turned my face to the path leading from the landing into the
Island itself.   The path wended jaggedly through an ancient apple grove.  Some of the trees had fallen, some were saplings, and some were full mature.  The trees were in all stages of ripeness, some bore blossoms, others bore small, hard fruits.  Others bore ripe apples in every color of apple.   Still others were bare, perchance an apple clung here and there to the branches, while the other fruits and leaves decaying at the foot of the tree.  The moonlight filtered through the trees, illumining my way clearly.  I ate several different apples, amazed at the variety of flavors, yet all distinctly ‘apple’. 

From the rotting logs of the fallen trees grew a small white flower, odd as it bloomed at night, when other flowers have folded inward.  Its scent was like apple blossoms and roses together.  I picked a thick fistful as I followed the path where it would lead.

The path wandered gently upwards.  It ended at a lake, a green hill rising from its center…  A stone bridge crossed the water, and the path continued, spiraling up the hill.  On the leeward side of the hill, halfway up, the path ended at a doorway.  The door and doorposts alike were massive stones, carved with ancient interlacing creatures.  The door was stone, balanced perfectly to open the barest touch.  They were topped by a massive lintel, raw stone of a different kind of stone from the door posts and door.  Later I would learn the lintel was meteorite copper.

I had an inkling of where I was.  Avalon, the Isle of Apples. 

Torches were thrust into buckets of sand on either side of the doorway.  Peering in I could see only blackness.  Taking a torch I entered.   The path spiraled down in the opposite direction it had spiraled up the hill.  I descended until the path flattened and opened into a large, circular room.  There was a fire in the center.  Through the flames I could make out a bench at the farther end of the room.

I sank my torch into a bucket of sand at the opening of the room.  Slowly I walked moonwise, around the circle.  Something in me wanted to dance.  I sensed I was in an ancient, a holy place, where mere walking was not reverent enough.  Something in me wanted to break out of myself and dance.  So I danced.  As I moved my heart filled with joy.  Love over flowed as tears down my face.  In the overwhelming flood of love, was peace.

When I reached the bench I stopped, breathless and excited.  Dancing was holy here, worshipful in this place.  I belonged here.

I calmed my breathing as I waited. 

Before long, from the opposite side from which I came, a hooded figure walked toward me.  I could see it was a woman, as she neared to me.  Sitting beside me, she slipped off her hood, revealing copper colored hair flowing over her shoulders as a veil.  It glowed like molten gold in the firelight. Braids held it back from her face.  Her face was not pretty, exactly, but kind.  Eyes the color of a winter sea were framed by blond-red lashes.  Freckles sprinkled her nose.  She smiled tenderly at me, and took my hands into her own.

“Blessed be, daughter.  I am your ancestor.  I lived long ago, before the Christian missionaries came to the Isles, when we still worshipped the Goddess.  She is still worshipped in this place, for here we are out of time.  As you descended into the past I ascended to the future.  I bring with me the wisdom of all the women in your lineage up until now.  You may ask me one question, only one, about anything, and I will answer.  Keep in mind, I cannot promise you will like the answer, or understand it.  I only promise to tell you the truth.”

 There was only one question I wanted to ask.  It burst from lips before I could consider the wisdom of asking. 

“Who am I?”

“I thought you would ask me a difficult question!  Listen to the story of Creation and be answered.

“In the Beginning, The HOLY ONE created the heavens and the earth. 

There was nothing beyond the consciousness of The HOLY ONE, a void, emptiness, infinite, impenetrable dark.

The HOLY ONE spoke, “Let there be light!”  Light exploded from the center of The HOLY ONE spiraling into infinite space as matter, energy, radiance, beginning the dance of creation, the music of the spheres.

And it was good beyond comprehension.

The HOLY ONE spoke again, “Let there be order, an ever unfolding symphony of place.”

The music and dance of creation formed itself according to the Word of The HOLY ONE. 

And it was good beyond comprehension.

The HOLY ONE spoke a third time.  “Let there be time.” 

At the Word of The HOLY ONE creation moved into constant orbits, galaxies around The HOLY ONE, solar systems with in galaxies, planets around suns, moons around planets, all spinning, swirling, in the dance of creation, to the music of the spheres.  Thus day and night, seasons, the wheel of the year came to be.

And it was good beyond comprehension.

The HOLY ONE spoke a fourth time.  “Let life begin in the waters.  Let life begin on the land.”

At the Word of The HOLY ONE life began in the waters.  Life began on the land.

And it was good beyond comprehension.

The HOLY ONE spoke a fifth time.  “Let life take wing.”

Life took wing and danced in the air, according to the Word of The HOLY ONE.

And it was good beyond comprehension.

The HOLY ONE spoke again.  “Let us create beings in our own image, to love and cherish.”

At the Word of The HOLY ONE, beings like The HOLY ONE were formed, beings able to feel, understand and love.  With great tenderness The HOLY ONE created these beings.

And it was good beyond comprehension. 

The HOLY ONE blessed them, and said to them, “Be fruitful, and multiply.  Replenish the earth.  Over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over every living thing that moves upon the earth, you are the most beloved.  The creatures will serve you.   Name them, know them, and tend them. The HOLY ONE said, “Behold, I have given you every herb, and every tree yielding fruit, every grain, of this earth, to you it shall be for meat.  Not only for you, but for every living creature on earth, in the sea, in the air. 

On the seventh day The HOLY ONE spoke again.  “Let there be rest, a holy Sabbath to celebrate the creation of life.”

All of Creation celebrated the glory of The HOLY ONE

The creation of human beings was like this:

The HOLY TRINITY, The HOLY THREE AS ONE, formed a human of humus, an earthling of the earth.  The HOLY TRINITY breathed into the created’s nostrils the breath of life; and the created became a living soul. The HOLY TRINITY planted a garden and there The HOLY TRINITY put the living soul, to dwell in comfort, peace, and joy. By word The HOLY TRINITY created birds, fish, and animals in two genders.  By hand The HOLY TRINITY created only one living soul. The HOLY ONE said, “It is not good for our living soul be alone;  The HOLY TRINITY caused a deep sleep to fall upon their living soul, from the flesh and bone of the living soul, The HOLY TRINITY created another living soul.  The HOLY TRINITY woke the living being to each other. The living souls looked on each other with love, “You are bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: we complete each other.”THE HOLY TRINITY called the living souls ‘Man’ and ‘Woman’, each a part of THE HOLY ONE, created by The Fashioning Hand, the third part being the Breath of Life.  Therefore shall a man and woman leave father and mother, and shall cleave unto each other, and they shall be one flesh, completing each other, becoming mother and father themselves continuing the circle of life. They were both naked, the woman and man, and were not ashamed.  They rejoiced in the wonder of their love.”

The story enraptured me.  Deep in my core, I could physically feel the rightness of the story.  But I did not understand how her story answered my question.  My ancestor seemed to understand.  She smiled and said, “I told you that you may not understand my answer.  Meditate on this story, this history of our race.  Now I have a question for you.”

I braced my self, fearful I might not be able to answer.  And my fear was well founded.

“Who are you?”

I sighed, and thought for what seemed a very long time.  Here, as elsewhere on this journey, time had no meaning.

“I don’t know.”

My ancestor smiled again.  “You will find out.”  Her encouragement reassured me.

“I have a gift for you.”  She caressed my bald head.  I felt a tingling, then an itching, then a tickling, as hair began to grow.  Tears spilled down my cheeks.  “Thank you, thank you!”

“My pleasure.  Even in your world, you inherited your hair from me.  And I received my hair from the Goddess.”

She kissed my forehead.

“What gift can I give you?”

“Ah! You are only allowed one question!” Her shining eyes let me know she was teasing.

She kissed my forehead again as she stood.  “Plant an apple tree in my honor, nurture it, and remember me.”

I also rose to my feet.

“Follow the circle moonwise until you come to your torch.  Do not look back.  Ascend the path upward to the door you entered.  Still, do not look back.  Replace your torch and return to the quay.  Anita Marie will be there.  Then you may look back.”

We embraced our farewell, holding each other tightly.  One more kiss and we took leave of each other, I traveling moonwise, she traveling counter-moonwise.  Difficult as I was, I did not look back until I was in the boat to return.  As Anita Marie pushed off I looked at the
Island.  The rising sun looked as if it were blooming out of the hill, a sea of apple trees, in bloom, bud and fruit reaching hands in joyous worship.  I could hear the sound of women singing across time, the beautiful voices of my ancestors.

Unknown time, Duwamish Bay

My first awareness was a feeling of heaviness, as if my skin weighed too much for my sinew and bones to bear. 

 

My next awareness was of a rhythmic sloshing, a heart beat, the steady sound of the surf. 

 

I am walking along a beach at sunrise.  Someone is walking beside me, his arm around my shoulder.  I cannot see his face, but his presence is comforting, his low voice soothes me. “Peace, daughter.  Your sins are forgiven.  Every charge laid against you has been absolved at the foot of the throne of the Most High.  You are fearfully and wonderfully made.  I made you.  I knit you together in your mother’s womb.  Every one of your days are numbered in my book of life.  Your name is engraved in the palm of my hand.  Your image rests in the apple of my eye.  I rejoice over you with singing, I quiet you with my love. I lay down my life that you may live.  Perfect love casts out all fear.”

 

I was crying, pain crushing my heart.  “But my love is not perfect!”

 

“Peace, daughter.  My love is.  My grace is sufficient for you.”

 

I am released into light, joyful and weightless.  I find myself on an island off the coast of
Alaska.  It is familiar, the summer home of friends.  Behind me are vistas of rugged beauty. Before me is a circle of heart shaped stones, marking the grave of my friends’ child.  Flowers bloom there, the most lovely a rare, blue, alpine poppy. Light is everywhere, not from a sun but simply there.  There are no shadows, but rainbows where a shadow might be expected.  I am utterly at peace, happy beyond comprehension.

 

I see a young man approach up the narrow trail along the cliff above the rocky beach.  His hair is red-gold, freckles spatter across his face.  He is smiles at me, quickens his steps.  He is a youth, but the wisdom of ancients is an aura around him.

 

I know this boy!  I love this boy!

 

“Anders!”  I run to him.  He swings me around in his arms like his brothers do.  “I am so happy to see you!”  We hug for a long time, time that satisfies my heart, time that feels like enough.

 

“I love you, Mama.”  Anders holds me at arm’s length.  Looking at him is like thirst being quenched.  “But my sister needs you, and my brothers.  Dad is lost without you.”

 

“Yes.  Yes, I must go.  I can go.  Now I know I can go back.”

 

“It’s not for long, Mama.  In a little while we’ll be together forever.  All of us.”

 

“Yes.  That’s why I can go.  I love you.”

 

“I love you too, Mom.” 

 

With that I turn and face a churning grey sea.  I throw myself into the water.  It is shockingly cold as it closes over me, and all is darkness again.

 

*

 

Then I am cold, so cold, retching until my every bone in my body aches.  I am weak, lying limp, unable to open my eyes, my head swimming, my ears buzzing.  I feel warmth being tucked around me, my head being gently lifted, my face and mouth being wiped with a wet cloth.  Fresh water is dribbled into my mouth; I swallow although it is painful.  Each swallow becomes easier.  The buzzing stops and the dizziness subsides.

 

“Poor, dear thing,” I hear a twittering voice croon, as I feel I soft cloth dabbing at my face.  “She’s not shivering as much, and looks less blue, don’t you think?”

 

Whoever she is talking to grunts.

 

“You go fetch a litter.” The twittery voice continues. “I can manage here.  But hurry, she needs to be indoors.  Shipwreck do you think?”

 

 “Probably,” replied the growly voice.

 

The crooning voice softly sings a melody.  I begin to feel warm and sleepy.

 

*

 

I hear birds warbling.  Through my closed eyes I see the dappling of light through leaves.  I am warm, encased in softness.  A breeze caresses my cheek.  I smell fresh bread and a tantalizing aroma of herbs.  My stomach grumbles.  My eyelids flutter open, needing time to focus.  I am enshrined in a cupboard bed, the hearth beside me.  The room before me is clean and simple.  The walls are whitewashed.  From the timbers supporting the roof hang baskets and bunches of herbs.  Lavender is the only one I recognize. A folk painted chest sits beneath the open window, two tidy beds, covered by gay patchwork quilts, stand on either side.  A mirrored sconce with an unlit candle is near the door.  The wood floor wears a woven rug.  A rocking chair is near my bed, a little table next to it.

 

A diminutive woman enters.  She is plump and rosy cheeked.  Blue eyes twinkle in a round, wrinkled face. Her grey hair is a long braid down her back.  She is dressed in blue homespun covered by a snow white pinner apron.  She wears a wreath of blood red roses in her hair. 

 

“Ooo!” She squeals, it is the twittery voice.  “You are awake!  I am so happy to see you awake.  Are you hungry dear?”

 

I cannot find my voice, so I nod.  My head wobbles, and that slight movement creates stars before my eyes and makes my head spin.

 

The Bluebird Woman, she reminds me so much of a chipper little bluebird as she flits about to serve me, brings me broth and bread.  She props me up a little at a time, careful of my wooziness.  Slowly she feeds me, dipping the bread in the broth, giving tiny bits at a time.   After only a few bites I can eat no more.  I feel my eyelids drooping.  I sink into sleep once more.

 

Every time I wake the Bluebird Woman is there with broth and bread.  Each time I eat a bit more and stay awake a bit longer.  The Bluebird Woman talks to me, but I cannot attend to what she says.  I know the words but do not comprehend the meanings.  Still I cannot talk, my throat feels too raw.  Nor can I think of anything to say.

 

One day I rasp out the question, “Where am I?”

 

“You are in bed, dear.”

 

“You are in Duwamish.”  It is the first time I have heard the growly voice.  I follow its sound to see a second diminutive woman, this one as sinewy as the other plump.  Her black eyes are sharp in a brown leather face.  Her hair, as much grey as black, is pulled into a knot at her neck.  She wears a brown homespun dress and a green striped apron.  A wreath of dry, autumn leaves crowns her head.

 

The Bluebird Woman laughs.  “Of course!  This is Duwamish.  Not really Duwamish, as we live some ways outside of the actual town, but we are closer to Duwamish than anyplace else. 

Duwamish
Bay is just at the foot of the cliff.  You can’t see it from here, too many trees in the way.  Of course the trees protect us from the sea winds and weather.  Good thing!  I shudder to think of what would happen to our dear little house if we weren’t protected by those trees!  And the salt air would ruin our gardens.  Simply ruin them”

 

“Amma,” interrupted the Wren Woman. 

 

Bluebird Woman stopped talking, smiling sheepishly.  “I do rattle on, don’t I?”

 

Wren Woman spoke again.  “Yes, you do.”  She fixed her bright black eyes on me.  “Do you know how you came to be here?”

 

At that time I could not remember.  I recalled only images of darkness, glowing fires and despair, of relief and peacefulness, deep contentment and freezing cold water.

 

“No.”  My head ached from trying to remember more than those fleeting images.  Wren Woman nodded her understanding.

 

“Do you know who you are?”

 

Tears stung my eyes.  “No.  I cannot remember anything beyond being here.”

 

Wren Woman nodded again.  “You have experienced trauma.  It is normal to have no memory.”

 

She caressed my cheek gently with her gnarled hand.  “Don’t distress, dear.  Your memories will return.  We can help you.  You are not the first waif to wash up on the shores of

Duwamish
Bay.”

 

I was reassured.

 

Each day I gained more and more strength.  They gave me a cotton chemise, and I sat at the window gazing out at their gardens.  The women grew herbs, vegetables, and flowers.  As I grew stronger, I did small chores of shelling peas, shucking corn, hulling berries.  Eventually I was able to walk about the cottage and putter, sweeping, washing dishes and making beds.  Ere long I graduated to being in the garden, weeding, harvesting.

 

They gave me a skirt, bodice and apron.  I was bald, so they made a turban for me.  In the evening we sat by the hearth.  I embroidered on a pocket for myself.  Wren Woman spun wool and Bluebird Woman wove cloth. 

 

They took me for walks, longer and longer as I grew healthy.  Until I was strong enough to leave.

 

One evening, my last evening with them, though I knew not then, Wren Woman stopped her spinning and looked at me kindly.

 

“Tomorrow we will go into Duwamish to the ferries.  It is time for you to find your memory and your way.”

 

I felt my face turn to wood.  My fingers trembled with the last stitches of my pocket.  “I don’t understand.”

 

“Of course you don’t.”  Wren Woman continued.  “Let me explain.  One of the ferry women will speak to you.  Well, they all will speak to you, but one will feel like a kindred spirit.  Trust your intuition and go with her.  She will take you to The Isle of Ancestors.  It is there you will learn who you are, or at least where you came from.”

“Oh, Gemma, there is more to it than that!”  Bluebird woman turned to me.  “You must have a gold coin for the ferry woman and a gift for the ancestor you will meet.  We will give you the coin.  No, don’t protest.  Money is one thing Gemma and I do not need.  Don’t worry about a gift for your ancestor, whoever you meet is dead, and the dead have no needs.  You will find you have the right gift with you when the time comes.”

 

“How will I find my ancestor on the
Island?”

 

Bluebird Woman smiled, “There is no way you cannot find your ancestor.  Just follow the path from the ferry landing and there you’ll be.”

 

 I stood slowly, my knees shakier than they had been when I first rose from my convalescent bed.  “I best go to bed now.”

 

“Of course, dear.”  Bluebird Woman cooed. 

 

“Sleep well, dear,” added Wren Woman.

 

But I did not sleep at all.

Later in an unknown time and place, Duwamish Bay

Ereshkigal

 

The passage beyond the onyx gates opened into a cavern of infinite size.  We followed the shore of a dark sea, its foam vaguely phosphorescent where it met the black sands.  Occasionally we had to weave our way through tangles of roots, massive things that stretched above us into the infinite dark.  Sometimes flashes of lightning would illuminate our way, revealing a bleak landscape.  There was no thunder accompanying the lightning, there was no sound at all.  Not even our feet in the sand made the soft shushing sound one would expect.  Far ahead of us we could see the fiery glow of an erupting volcano.   I knew that was our destination, if only because there was light.

 

We walked until it seemed we had always been walking, and the volcano seemed no nearer. 

 

Then, suddenly, we were at its feet.  We climbed the steep jagged sides, our hands and feet a bloody mess by the time we reached the summit.  We looked down into a crater roiling with molten rock.  Carefully we followed a steep, but obvious path downward. 

 

After what seemed a lifetime, we reached the bottom and stumbled forward into the snarling jaws of Cerberus, the three headed guardian of the underworld.  Behind him snakes, some as small as worms, others large as trees, slithered, their eyes glowing.  Above us vultures circled slowly.  Bats and flies swarmed around our faces.  The bats’ high pitched squeal knifed our ears; the flies stinging bites raised painful welts on our skin.

 

Resolute we stepped forward, and the creatures allowed us to pass.  My lips and eyes were dry, and I panted rapidly.  I could feel my heart thumping in my throat.  My arms felt limp, my legs wooden.  I wanted to scream, but knew if I did, I would be fair spoils to the creatures following us.

 

In due time we reached the receiving chamber of Ereshkigal. 

 

She stood above us on a dais of onyx.  The fires of the mountain glowed about us, as if we were inside a live coal.  Blue flames danced behind her, making it difficult to look at her.

 

When we stood at the foot of her dais, we bowed our knees and faces to the ground. 

 

“Rise.”  The voice of Ereshkigal makes the blood freeze.  You do not want to rise, but turn and crawl away whimpering. Yet you obey.  Feelings you may have, but will you have no longer.

 

Slowly I rose and looked up at her, wishing I need not.  She stood far above me; my head did not reach her feet.  She was fair as her sister was dark, her hair black as her sister’s was silver.   She wore a crown of skulls on her head and a girdle of skulls at her hips.  She held a trident in her right hand and a feather in her left.  Her red eyes, full of hate and anger turned upon Inanna. 

 

“Who are you and why are you here?”

 

“I am your sister, Inanna.  For the sake of our womb bond I have come to offer condolences for the death of your husband.”

 

“Liar!” screamed Ereshkigal.  I fell flat at the force of her voice.  The ground trembled.  But Inanna did not.

 

“Who are you and why have you come?”  The question was hissed with the venom of death.

 

“I am Inanna, your sister.  For the sake of our womb bond I have come to offer condolences for the death of your husband.”

 

Ereshkigal screamed again, a foul name.  She floated from her dais and hit Inanna across the face, with the hand clutching the trident.  Inanna did not move, but tears glistened in her eyes.

 

Ereshkigal’s voice was a low growl.  “Who are you and why are you here?”

 

Inanna did not answer.  Time yawned as her silence waxed.  Ereshkigal also stood still and silent.  The fires of her domain swirled about us, laughing, licking tongues.

 

Inanna bowed her head.  “I came to give condolences that I might show you my glory.”

 

“You have no glory here,” Ereshkigal spat at her.  “You have no power here, no authority, nothing.”

 

From nowhere, two creatures appeared, one on each side of Inanna.  They looked liked jackals, crocodiles, men, bulls, morphed together, slavering, gripping Inanna’s arm with clawed hands.

 

“You are mine forever.”  Ereshkigal gloated.

 

The flames parted and the creatures escorted Inanna into the darkness. 

 

Ereshkigal turned her attention to me.  I cowered.

 

“What are you and why are you here?”  I felt like a worm beneath a foot contemplating my destruction.

 

“I am a human being.  I followed Inanna here to discover who I am.”

I cringed as she laughed uproariously. 

 

“You are a fool on a fool’s errand.”  She flowed to my side, circling me slowly, licking her lips like a predator circling its prey.

 

“I will grant your request.  I will teach you who you are.  Human being.” She spat at me.

 

I shuddered.  The saliva on my cheek burned like acid.

 

Ereshkigal pointed her trident at the floor at my feet.  Flames burst from it, scorching my body.  The fires swirled themselves into a bowl. 

 

Ereshkigal pointed her trident again, this time to the side of us. From the flames a scale appeared.  She laid her feather on one pan.  

 

“Let us weigh your deeds, your thoughts, the secrets of your heart against my feather.”

 

She pointed the trident at the flames at my feet.  I looked down.  In the fire scenes from my life played themselves in cruel clarity.  From the first lie I told, the first time I hit my sibling, to the rebellious, self pitying thoughts as I traversed her domain, every wrong I ever committed was brought into the open.  I groveled in shame as Ereshkigal cackled maliciously. 

 

When I looked up at the scales, they touched the ground.

 

“Who are you, human being? You are revolting, self-absorbed, mean and ugly.  If you had brains you would be dangerous.  You are too stupid to live, too vile to be tolerated.  You are no good to anyone.  It would be better had you never been born.”

 

At those words I ceased to exist.

Unknown time, Duwamish Bay

Date to be determined

 

I am astounded at how much time has elapsed from that night by Blind Springs until now.  So much has happened.  I have experienced many wonders; I hope my memory serves as I write.

 

I woke before dawn, in the between time, not yet day, but no longer night.  Inanna stood before the rock where the spring spurted forth.  She was dressed as a Queen and goddess. 

 

I had decided what I would bring before I slept, and quickly dressed.  Jenny and Verdia are living creatures.  I could not bring them into an unknown, so they must stay behind.  I left Jenny unpacked and unfettered, free.  I left tent and supplies, bedroll and extra clothes, toiletries protected in a cairn.  Perhaps some other traveler to these springs might find them of use.  I wore only my clothes and the symbols of the things I hold most dear, things which tether me to the people and things beloved to me.  I joined Inanna at the rock face.

 

“I am ready.”

Inanna smiled gently. “In the holy words of the Christian Bible, you are told you must be born again.  The metaphor of a seed dying and being buried in the ground speaks to this.  The seed will germinate and grow, but first it must die.  And so must we all.”

 

Inanna struck her rod on the ground.  The earth trembled, a fissure breaking open at our feet.  I clung to Inanna to keep from falling; she was immovable, solid as the earth itself.  When the steam and rumbling stopped, I saw the hole opened to a winding stair, as if we were atop a buried tower of an ancient castle. 

 

Inanna spoke again.  “When you enter here you are leaving the world you know.  If you return, nothing will be as you remember it.” 

 

If I return.  I looked behind me.  Jenny looked at me with quiet eyes, and nodded.  I unwound Verdia from my neck and put her on the ground. 

 

Then I began my descent.

 

The winding steps into the earth seemed to have no end.  Night had fallen in the world above, leaving us in darkness.  In the dark I followed the wall with my hand, carefully seeking each step with my foot.  It was impossible to measure time.  Perhaps it was only minutes to descend, perhaps hours or days.   Here, as elsewhere on this journey, time is irrelevant. 

 

In due time we arrived at a gate.  It was illuminated by torch light, revealing carvings of ancient stories.  I ran my hand over the reliefs, wishing I could sketch them; learn their stories, and the meanings within the stories.  Before the closed door stood the gatekeeper clothed in gold.  Inanna was taller and more regal than the gatekeeper, but she bowed to her.  I bowed as well.

 

“Who are you and why have you come?”

 

“I am Inanna, Queen of Heaven, Queen of Earth, Beloved of her People, sister to Ereshkigal, Queen of the Underworld.  I have come to mourn with my sister the death of her husband.”

 

“Before you enter you must relinquish your crown.  In the realm of Ereshkigal you are sovereign no longer.  Not of others, not of yourself.  To enter you must submit to the sovereignty of Ereshkigal.”

 

Inanna lifted the jeweled silver and gold crown from her head and gave it to the gate keeper.  The gatekeeper opened the door and Inanna passed through.   Then she turned to me.  “Who are you and why have you come?”

 

I didn’t know how to answer.  Who am I?  Why was I following an ancient goddess into the Underworld?

 

“I don’t know who I am, and I hope I will find out as I journey through your realm.”

 

“Before you enter you must relinquish your crown.  In the realm of Ereshkigal you are sovereign no longer.  Not of others, not of yourself.  To enter you must submit to the sovereignty of Ereshkigal.”

 

“But I am not a sovereign, I have no crown.”

 

“In your past you have ruled over yourself and over others.  Your hair is your crown.”

 

I gasped.  Relinquish my hair?  My hair is my crowning glory.  It is admired wherever I go.  As I have aged it is the only thing that has retained its beauty and luster.  And I have tried to rule my own destiny, I have had the privilege of choices women in other times and places do not have.  As a mother and supervisor I have been in authority over others.  I am ashamed to admit I have abused that authority, out of pride and ignorance.  

 

I considered, is losing my hair worth the price of being reborn?

 

“I relinquish my hair.”

 

The gatekeeper brought out scissors and razor from her robes.  She cut my hair close to my scalp, and then shaved my head smooth.  My head felt light, and cool.  I ran my hand over my scalp, it was smooth.  The gatekeeper held up a mirror.  I looked strange.  My eyes were enormous in my face, my ears stuck out comically.  I smiled at my strange appearance, but tears stung my eyes.  Oh! My beautiful hair!

 

The gatekeeper opened the door and allowed me to pass through.  I could not see Inanna, but I could sense her presence ahead.  The way was wholly dark, I shuffled forward, afraid of tripping.  But the way was smooth, and I gained confidence and began to walk normally.  Again time was impossible to measure. 

 

In due time the second gate appeared.  This gate glowed silver in the dark, illuminated from within.  This gate, like the first, intrigued me with its impressions of ancient stories.  Inanna was ahead of me.  I stood beside her, as the gatekeeper addressed her.

 

“Who are you and why have you come?”

 

“I am Inanna, Queen of Heaven, Beloved of her People, sister to Ereshkigal, Queen of the Underworld.  I have come to mourn with my sister the death of her husband.”

 

“To enter you must relinquish the beads around your neck.”

 

“Why must I relinquish them?”

 

“The beads are the gift of your family, each bead a token of a natal tie, a relationship you cherish.  You must give up these relationships to enter here.”

 

Silently Inanna undid the clasp of her beads and gave them to the gatekeeper.  Silently the gate keeper opened the gate, allowing Inanna to pass.

 

The gatekeeper turned to me.  “Who are you and why have you come?”

 

“Don’t you get tired of repeating the same question? And what do you do with the tokens you demand?”

 

I couldn’t believe I said that!  What cheek!  Where did that impishness come from?

 

The gatekeeper laughed a belly laugh.  “My existence is more than you can imagine.  As for the tokens demanded, that is not for you to know.  But don’t be afraid of asking questions.  At worse you might offend, but is that about you or the offended one?”

“Who are you and why have you come?”

 

“I am not sure who I am, or why I have come.  I hope I will find answers on this journey.”

 

“To continue you must give me your multicolored bracelet and your talisman amulet.”

 

I gasped.  “Why?” 

 

My bracelet is very important to me.  It was significant in my healing after my baby, the last child I could ever bear, was killed.  I was shattered, suicidal.  The pain tortured every breath I took.  I cried daily for over a year.  Somehow I had to get past the pain, relinquish my beloved child.  But how could I let go?  I loved him so much, missed him so much.

 

One night I dreamed a dream so real that when I awoke I was disoriented. I was sitting up in bed when just a heartbeat ago I was standing at the mantel, holding his box of ashes to my breast, weeping. 

 

I felt a heavy, comforting hand on my shoulder.  I knew without looking it was God.

 

“Shall I bring him back?”

 

Joy indescribable flooded my heart.

 

“Oh, Lord! Would you really do that for me?”

 

God’s voice was very tender and gentle.  “Only if you truly want me to.”

 

All the air left my lungs.  Tears began to flow again.  How could I take my beloved child out of heaven into a world of suffering?  In just a little while, though it seems so long, we will be reunited for all eternity.  I am the mother, it is I who should suffer for his sake, not he suffer for mine. 

 

“No.”  In that little word, in that enormous choice, I let go.

 

The hand on my shoulder gave an affectionate squeeze.  “I hold you in one hand.  I hold your baby in the other.  I am the link between you, and I my love will never fail.  Peace, my daughter.”

 

Then I resolved to find a way to make my memory of my child a blessing for myself.  I made my bracelet, each bead representing someone beloved.  In among the beads were porcelain beads of the letters of his name.  Each letter stood for a kind of prayer.  A is for adoration.  N is for names, to pray for people.  D is for Dayenu, giving thanks, being grateful.  E is for examine, examine my heart for bitter shoots and pull them out.  R is for relinquish, to let go of the things that hinder.  S is for supplication, for asking for what I need. 

 

As for my talisman amulet, Sybilla suggested I make one for the Journey along the Road of the Rainbow Serpent, the journey that brought me to this gate.  I stitched it from a scrap of silk brocade leftover from the qi pao I made for my adopted daughter.  She is a joy and delight I would never have known had my last baby lived.  She is a gift of her brother to me.  The choice of silk brings me full circle in my healing.

 

 I agonized for weeks over what to put inside the brocade bag.  Finally, I knew – a small scroll with the names of those I love, a miniature of the illumination I made for the N of my baby’s name.  The bracelet and illumination center me when I pray for those listed.  Praying these names helps me love those people.  Some are very difficult to love.

 

How could I give this up?

 

“The bracelet and amulet represent the relationships that tether you to the land of the living, and the land of the dead.  You must be free of them to enter here.”

 

I knew I must, but it wrenched my heart to do so.  Slowly, weeping all the while, I unwound the bracelet from my wrist and the amulet from my neck, giving them to the gate keeper.

 

He opened the gate for me, and I shuffled past, crying from a broken heart.

 

“Peace, my daughter,” he said before he closed the gates behind me.

 

I wept bitterly as I stumbled along, stumbling although the path was smooth.  Eventually the tears spent themselves. I fell to my knees and slept.

 

When I woke I felt like I had barely the strength to rise, but I felt free as well.  I was ready to stumble onward once more.

 

Perhaps I walked minutes, perhaps hours or days.  In due time I reached a third gate, glowing brilliantly red in the dark.  Inanna was there ahead of me.  I stood by her as the gatekeeper addressed her. 

 

“Who are you and why are here?”

 

“I am Inanna, Queen of Heaven, come to comfort Ereshkigal because her husband has died.”

 

“To enter here you must give up your long stand of beads.”

“Why must I?”

 

“The beads represent who you are as a woman; your sensuality, attractiveness, fertility.  You must be free of them to enter here.”

 

Silently Inanna lifted the long strand of beads from her neck and gave them to the gatekeeper.  Silently the gate keeper opened the gates and let her pass.

 

Then it was my turn.  I thought as I awaited the inevitable question of who am I and why am I here, questions I could not answer.  I thought about what I would be asked to give up at this gate. 

 

My gold rings.

 

“Why must I give up my rings?”

 

“Your rings symbolize you as a woman; your sensuality, attractiveness, fertility.  You must be free of them to enter here.”

 

Oh! My precious rings!  On the fourth finger of my left hand I wear my wedding band, a simple, plain circlet of 14 karat gold.  It reminds me of the dizzy ecstasy of romantic love.  The time when I was beautiful, desirable, courted by many, wanting only one.  It brings back the halcyon days of our courtship, wedding, early marriage.  Of the commitment holding us together when ecstasy waned.  It reminded me of the discovery of sexual pleasures, the discovery of feelings within my body I never knew were there.  And of the ripening of my body to bear a child, and another, and a last.  It reminds me of the incredible bond of the babies suckling at my breast, their deep contentment and my awe.

 

On the fourth finger of my right hand is another gold band, pure gold, the words ‘I love you” cut out of the metal.  This ring reminds me of the only time I was tempted to be another man’s lover.  Tempted.  A crossroads of choice.  Surprised that another could arouse me just by his presence.  Amazed I could feel such desire.  Trembling at the force of passion.  Afraid to give in, but wanting to.

 

I chose fidelity.  In choosing, I realized that I really loved my husband.  The passion may be cool; the realities of daily life have polished us into complacency.  Yet, we have grown together.  Half of my life has been lived with this man.  Our children’s faces look like both of us.  Our life together has been poetry and prose.  It is more precious than satisfying physical desire.  The desire I felt for the other is surpassed by the love I have for my husband.  Love that has ceased to be a feeling and has become part of my bones.  It is deep in the pith of me, a choice I make daily, purer, stronger than the idealistic vows made on our wedding day.  Living those vows, in all the pain better and worse, richer and poorer, sickness and health, joy and sorrow, changed ideals to reality.  Choosing fidelity makes me cling to him tenaciously, forsake all others and cleave only to him, even now when it seems it is impossible to stay together. 

 

This is what my gold rings represent to me.  How can I give them up?

 

What can be worth giving up my rings and what they represent?

 

I know I must go on.  Slowly I take off my rings and place them in the gate keeper’s outstretched hand.

 

The gate opens for me; I pass through its ruby portals, and continue.

 

A year and a day?  A blink of an eye?  I don’t know.  But in due time I come to the fourth door in the wake of Inanna.

 

She is ahead of me facing the gatekeeper of an emerald gate.  The price of passing this gate is for her to relinquish rod and measuring line.

 

“Why?”

 

Somehow it comforts me that even a goddess wants to know why.

 

“These are symbolic of your work, your industry.  You have no need of these here.”

 

Again Inanna hands over what is asked for compliantly, almost casually.  Do these things matter so little to her?  She does not seem to agonize over the choice to hold on or let go.  Is something wrong with me that I find this so difficult?  Everything that defines who I am is being stripped away, and yet I do not know who I am. 

 

Am I my name?  I wonder.

 

No.  My name only differentiates me from all the other human souls that have passed or will pass this gate.  It is no more me than Antares is the star it names.  Nor am I my fingerprint, foot print or body.

 

Whoever I am, I am dying, shedding myself as I descend deeper and deeper into the mysterious depths.

 

“Who are you and why are you here?”

 

I sigh.  “I have no idea.”

 

“To enter here you must give me your pack.”

 

Inwardly I groan.  My pack is heavy, but up until now has not been a burden.  It contains my journal, sketchpad, pencils, pens, needlework, and bowed psaltery.  These things give me creative pleasure.

 

“Why?”  If Inanna can ask, so can I.

 

“These are symbolic of your work, your industry. You have no need of them here.” 

 

How I wish!  My work and industry are the jobs I hold to provide daily needs.  Would I could live by the words I write and art I create!  A professor of mine once wrote a poem about the difference between making a living and making a life.  I wish what I do to make a life were also the way I make a living.  My work keeps my body and soul connected so I can find spare moments to live.  Right the gatekeeper is to ask for my precious pack and not the accoutrements of my jobs.  Those I would surrender joyfully.

 

I am naked without a scrap of blank paper and a stub of pencil tucked somewhere upon my person.  God bless the creator of pockets!  While I wallow in the mundane, my creative antennae are waggling, seeking puffs of inspiration, that I jot down and hoard like a miserly dung-beetle.

 

I believe I do need these here.  I need to record this journey. 

 

I pry my pack from my back and drop it at the gatekeeper’s feet, hoping it lands on an emerald toe.

 

I pass through, my back straight, but despondent.  I chose this path just because I would always wonder ‘what if?” 

 

What if it is not worth it? 

 

On and on –

The road goes ever on –

Ending at a radiant door of amethyst.  

 

Here Inanna hands over her golden arm band, symbolic of her status, her debts, assets, possessions, obligations.

 

I am asked for my shoes, symbolic of social standing I suppose.

 

I tend to be very practical about my footwear.  Comfort at any price.  Never compromise the quality of your mattress or your shoes, said grandmother.  If you aren’t in one, you are in the other. 

 

The beauties on my feet are both lovely and practical.  Still, it does not ache to let them go.  Social status isn’t as important to me as sitting and scribbling all day, or baking bread, or kissing my husband or cuddling my children. 

 

I take them off and pass through the gate.

 

The ground through the dark has been smooth so far.  Now it turns rocky.  My feet are bleeding and sore by the time I arrive at the Lapis lazuli gate, hobbling behind Inanna.  

 

The gatekeeper asks Inanna for her breastplate, symbol of her role as goddess, as priestess.  Here I note a trembling as she removes the cumbersome ornament and gives it away. 

 

I am asked for my cross on a chain, a symbol of my Christian faith, which had been dear to me since childhood.  My stepfather recalls me talking to the stars, telling God everything.  Indeed, prayer is to me simply talking out loud, as if to a trustworthy friend.  While Jesus is still beloved, Christianity isn’t.  This symbol is easy to relinquish as my shoes.

 

I go on, arriving at the final gate made of onyx. 

 

I am glad Inanna is ahead of me.  Listening to her exchange with the gatekeeper prepares me for my own.  And it is gratifying to know I am keeping up with a goddess.

 

Here we are asked to disrobe, remove the vestiges of identity.  The clothes I carefully stitched for the journey, the flowing folk dress, serviceable burnoose, are discarded.  Every stitch we wear, from our underwear to our overcoat shouts who we are. 

 

Here I am, naked with no identity.  Simply a body, the shell of a human being.  Inanna precedes me still, still poised and regal, every bit a goddess, even stripped of everything. 

 

I try to follow her example, but my face burns red with shame.  Inanna isn’t dumpy like I am.  Her belly is a little pouchy. Her breasts do sag, but not nearly as much as mine.  Her buttocks are firm.  I am grateful I cannot see mine and have to face their existence.  I am overweight, resplendent with stretch marks.  I am ashamed of how I look. 

 

At least Inanna has her hair.  I recall the mirror visage of myself after my head was shaved.  My humiliation is complete. 

 

The worst is yet to come.

 

Ereshkigal.