Honeycomb Moon

#7 Festering Fear: The Sword May 30, 2020

And so, just as characters in a story, or we in what we call real life, must make choices, so too must storytellers. There comes a time in every story in which the details, while relevant in the moment of occurrence, become less so in the telling. What must be known at this point is that fear is festering. While the girl’s mother has an intuitive understanding that sometimes safety is a cage that traps and confines, the girl’s father has no such comprehension and, in fact, believes it his paramount duty to provide absolute safety for both his wife and daughter. It makes no difference in the telling where these beliefs originate; we need only know they are so.

Likewise, it can be helpful, too, to stay out of a place of judgment regarding who is right and who is wrong. That being said, the girl’s father, in his fear of failing at his duty, has begun to lose faith in the cooperative relationship he has enjoyed with his wife, no longer trusting in her intuitive wisdom. And so he has begun to make choices that are in direct opposition to his daughter’s path and destiny, and which will have grave consequences for all of them.

He sees nothing of this, of course, and decides on his own, and in the clutch of fear, to take the family on a journey and remove them from the dangers he sees presented by the old woman and the sword. It matters not at this point in our story where or how he plans to do this, only that they will be in the company of others and the journey will be a long one. While the girl and her mother do not wish to go, they confer with the blind warrior and decide that, for now, they will go along with the father’s wishes. The girl has learned to trust her mentor, and though it saddens her, does nothing to disrupt her father’s plan. And so the family packs up and sets off on an unknown path. It is here, in this unknown yet familiar time and place, that we pick up the dangling thread of story …

Some time into the journey, the girl crossed her eleventh sun cycle threshold. The family celebrated the occasion along with the others in their little caravan, honoring her with trinkets and songs and a sumptuous meal followed by a fragrant pastry rich with spices and dripping with sweet golden honey. The girl smiled and laughed so gaily, so easily that her father nearly forgot the old woman, the sword, and the reason they were making this long and exhausting trip in the first place. It had been quite some time since he’d felt so at ease, so safe. Or so he believed.

The girl, of course, had found the time and clever ways to continue her training with the blind warrior, and one day, not long after her sun cycle celebration, she did not show up with the other young people for the evening meal. Her father was frantic, and though they enlisted the entire caravan in the search, still the girl was not found. The girl’s father suspected the old woman’s hand in this, but he had no proof and had little choice, finally, but to agree with the others and reluctantly move on, albeit slowly and always with an eye for the girl’s return.

When finally she showed up three sun crossings later, looking healthy and unharmed, the girl’s father was so numb with relief that he could not bring himself to berate her as he knew he should, but only asked, holding her tightly to his chest, “Where have you been, my daughter? We have been beside ourselves with worry. And you have held up the progress of the entire caravan.”

The girl could answer him truthfully when she said, “I’m sorry I worried you.” But she offered no further explanation, and because he didn’t really want to know the truth, preferring to believe his own misguided thoughts regarding the girl’s “escape” from the old woman’s clutches and her voluntary return to him (for he was sure that is what happened) the girl’s father did not ask for more.

Her mother, however, sought out her daughter that evening and suggested a stroll under the vigorous full moon. When they were far enough from the others where they could still be seen in the silvery light, but not overheard, the girl’s mother said simply, “You went to her.”

The girl nodded. “Yes,” she said. “We met in a hidden place not far from here.”

“She is following us, then?”

The girl only shrugged. “She called to me; I went.”

When her mother smiled, she continued. “The time is getting close and, well … I had to go. I’m sorry I couldn’t let you know.”

Her mother put up her hand and waved away her daughter’s apology. “There is no need to apologize,” she said. “You are doing what you must do: following the path that has been laid out for you even before the light of the first star shone in the dark of the first moonlit sky.” She took her daughter’s hand in her own and squeezed it. “I am proud of you,” she said. “I don’t know that I would have had your strength had I been called to follow this path.”

The girl laughed, a sound as light and bright as the tinkling of faerie bells. “Oh, Mother,” she said, “where do you think I get my strength, if not from you?”

Her mother was silent for a moment, searching her daughter’s face and truly seeing for the first time the wise young woman she was becoming. “It won’t be long now.”

“No,” her daughter answered. “The time is upon us and …” She paused. “My father will not be pleased.”

“He will not,” her mother said, a shadow of sadness flitting across her face. “No, but that is not your worry. Your father will do as he will, but you must remain steadfast in your commitment.”

“What about you, Mother? How will you handle the certain upheaval that is coming?”

The woman smiled again at her daughter, taking the girl’s face gently in her hands. “That, too, is not your concern, dear one.”

They stood still like this for several minutes, searching in each other’s eyes for any trace of hidden anger or resentment, and found none.

The girl nodded then. “I trust you, Mother.”

“And I you, my daughter.”

And so we leave our story here, in the silvery light of a young girl’s trust in her own destiny and her mother’s faith and assurance that all is as it should be.

Copyright 2020 Linda Maree/Linda M. Gabriel