Honeycomb Moon

#8 The Call: The Sword August 13, 2020

As we rejoin our story, we see that both time and travelers have moved on, as time and travelers will. We have come, finally to that morning, the one that changes everything, though this will not likely be readily apparent to even those of us who have been warned that it is so. The sun, on this day, shines valiantly in the awakening sky, adding its welcome warmth to a cool, dry wind that coats the travelers with a fine dust it has picked up in a far away desert. Even the local herders are huddled out of sight in their small lean-tos, waiting for the mysterious wind to pass. The brave sun nearly, but never fully, succeeds in overpowering the air of impending doom and loss that hovers about like a flimsy specter, its presence felt but unseen and unacknowledged by the travelers, as if ignoring it will ensure it doesn’t exist. But of course, it does, and it is in this spectral atmosphere that we pick up the traces left behind by the events of the day, and days past that, in this space of once upon-a-time in time, are yet to come …

While birdsong had welcomed the travelers to dawn’s first light, that had quickly been silenced, perhaps by the choking dust, perhaps by the inherent lethargy of the day. Nearly everyone, except the girl, who could not hide her feeling of quiet exhilaration, had awakened in moods that ranged from dismal to foul, with the girl’s father feeling particularly on edge, especially upon noticing his daughter’s cheerful disposition, so dramatically different from all the others. What had she to be so happy about, when everyone else had succumbed to the day’s uneasy energy? The girl alone seemed immune.

Dark suspicions were unleashed from their hiding places and began to play at his mind, and he determined to bring this “horrid sword business” to an end once and for all. For even though he had seen no sign of the old woman, and neither his wife nor daughter had mentioned her or the sword, the unease in the air he could only attribute to a particularly heinous influence, and he became convinced the old hag was somehow behind it.

As he sat with the others, eating their morning meal in near silence, the man watched his daughter closely, remembering her recent disappearance. He had been so grateful that she had come back, so relieved, that he had been lulled into a state of complacency, feeling that they had put enough distance between themselves and the old woman, that he had never really questioned his daughter regarding her whereabouts. Now he determined to do just that and, without realizing it, found himself staring so pointedly and harshly in his daughter’s direction that she suddenly looked up, meeting his gaze, and, as if she had been struck, gave a startled cry that was noted by the others.

They looked from father to daughter, whose previously cheerful countenance, which they had much appreciated this dismal morning, was replaced by one of fear, and they wondered how to respond. The family had never seemed to them to be anything but a normal, loving family, but now they wondered. Clearly there was something going on here that they were not privy to.

The girl’s mother laid her hand gently on her husband’s arm and he was brought back to the present moment with a start. He tried to smile at his daughter, could only manage a weak grimace, but it was enough to dispel the pall shrouding the circle, and the remainder of the morning progressed uneventfully.

By the time the sun had reached its zenith, the mood of most in the group had brightened with the day, though the girl’s father continued to watch her every movement. Because of this, the girl had not had the opportunity, without raising her father’s suspicions, to share with her mother the good news, the anticipated event that had awakened her with a warm gush while the morn was yet dark, before anyone else had stirred. The girl had learned her lessons well and knew that she had only to be patient, trusting that the right moment for disclosing her secret to her mother would present itself, rather than rushing headlong into her father’s fear-infused energy by trying to force her own timing on the situation.

As the day wore on and everyone’s mood improved, and his daughter showed no signs of disappearing or doing anything besides chatting with the women and mingling with the other young ones, the man began to relax, thinking perhaps his morning suspicions had been merely overblown anxiety caused by the unusually windy, dusty conditions that had welcomed them to their day.

Unnoticed, in her seeming complacency, the girl had been sending silent, inscrutable signals to her mother, who understood the urgency of her daughter’s communication, if not the content, though she had her hunches. But despite the urgency, she, like her daughter, thoroughly understood the need to maintain an air of normalcy until such time as the next step became apparent.

They hadn’t long to wait.

That evening the woman and the girl retired to their tent at the usual hour, but the man stayed outside with the other men about the fire, his fear having been eased by the uneventful day and the marked progress they had made. Surely it was only another day or two until they reached his familial village. Had the day started differently, or had the man been less focused on easing his anxiety, less fatigued by blinding fear, he might have merely breathed a sigh of relief rather than allowing his cup to be filled and refilled with the dark, sweet, mind-numbing ale he usually avoided. This night, though, he felt so much relief that he had brought his daughter to a place of safety, away from that horrid woman with her fearful sword, that he dropped his guard and was soon more inebriated than he had ever been.

Inside the tent, though they could not see or hear what was going on, the girl intuited her father’s drunken state, sensing that she and her mother were free to converse. She turned then to her mother and smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. “It is time,” she whispered. “My blood time is upon me and the blind one beckons me to come.”

The woman’s eyes filled with tears as she held her daughter tightly, knowing she must let her go sooner than she had hoped. “Yes,” she said, “I sensed your flow had found you, though I could not be certain until you said it was so.” She paused for only a moment and then sighed, holding the girl away from her so she could see her face, her eyes. “I am ready, as I must be. But I will miss you, dear daughter.”

“Oh, Mother! How I wish you could be with me for the initiation.”

“Me, too, my love,” her mother replied, squeezing her close again. “But I am with you in spirit, always. And who knows?” she whispered mysteriously. “Who knows?”

That night, under the cover of darkness, the girl left her tent. No one saw her as she turned to gaze on the sleeping camp one last time and then, seemingly, step into a warp in the very fabric of the night and disappear.

The next morning, the girl’s father awoke in the same spot in which he had fallen into a drunken sleep the night before. None of the other men had thought to waken him and he had slept outside, by the fire, which had burned down to a hot ash that one of the women, eyeing him warily, was now stirring while tossing in a number of thick roots to cook for the morning meal.

The man shook his head and groaned, trying to remember where he was, why he was here. He looked around the camp in the meager dawn light and saw his wife exiting their tent, heading down the path to the river, along with several of the other women and girls. His daughter was not among them, and his stomach lurched with sudden dread.

One of the other men had made his way over to the fire pit and laughed now as the girl’s father staggered to his feet. “Not feeling so well this morning?” He had meant his comment as a gentle tease, feeling none too well himself. But the father was in no mood for teasing or camaraderie and shoved the other man roughly as he stumbled in a blind rage toward the family tent. Pulling open the flap, nearly ripping the material in his haste, he called out to his daughter. There was no answer.

The tent was empty.

And for now we will leave it thus. The girl’s father, as anyone might guess, is both fearful and enraged, a most dangerous emotional territory. What he will do, and how the story will proceed, remains to be seen. But if you are at all familiar with the weaving of tales and the intricate patterns of human nature, you likely have at least some idea of the trajectory we might expect when once again we take up the thread and follow it to that recent long ago time in that nearby faraway place …

Copyright 2020 Linda Maree/Linda M. Gabriel