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#7 Festering Fear: The Sword May 30, 2020

Posted by wimynspeak in Sourceress: The Book of Fear.
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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

The Pool May 31, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
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She heard the hawk’s piercing call and felt as if it was especially for her. She had sat so still for so long, waiting, waiting for a sign, a cry that would beckon her. She opened her eyes now and scanned the skies. There it was, coming out of the trees and heading her way. Silent now, it circled overhead, tracing a spiral path that moved lower and lower with each ever-tightening circle, until it was just above her and then, unbelievably, perched on her shoulder.

“Breathe!” the hawk whispered in her ear, and only then did she realize she was holding her breath. She took a great gulp of air and let it out slowly as the hawk instructed, relaxing her muscles as she did so. “That’s better,” the hawk said, settling comfortably onto her perch. “Keep breathing and listen.”

She did.

At first all she could hear was her own breath as it escaped in soft sighs. Then, as her stillness and listening deepened, she could also hear the fainter intake of air through her nose and its movement into her lungs. Hold. Then the sigh of release. When she had become fully attuned to her own breath, she realized she could also hear the hawk’s breath as well as its strong heartbeat next to her ear.

They sat like this for a long time, breathing, listening, deepening. As they sat, the sun arced across the sky, creating moving shadows, that appeared then disappeared, as if in a choreographed dance, but the woman and the hawk saw none of this. When the sun had fallen well below the horizon and the sky had taken off its flashy pinks and purples and donned its black velvet cloak, the hawk whispered once again in her ear, “It is time.”

The woman did not know what this meant, but as the hawk took off, she followed it. She had no idea where they were going, and could not see the path, but the hawk flew in front of her, leaving behind only a trace of sound for her to track in the deep, deep dark. Somehow, even in this darkest of dark places, the woman’s feet managed to miss the loose stones and rambling roots that might have tripped her up.

Someone else’s beliefs might have kept her from taking this journey at all, but the woman was ready to go all out for what she knew would be the richest of treasures, if only she persisted. Another ripple of sound caressed her ear and she turned toward the left, following it blindly, never once doubting the hawk’s purpose for calling her — though she had no idea what that purpose might be. All would be revealed.

At last she heard the hawk come to rest and she stopped a few paces away. Standing still, she could allow her eyes to adjust to the dark. At first she could see nothing but trees so close around her, then the path, the hawk, and the sun barely peeking over the horizon. Beyond the hawk stood a large flat rock upon which a narrow stream of water trickled, glistening in the rising sun and filling a pool at the great rock’s base.

The woman approached the pool and saw that it was clear, like glass. Not a ripple marred its smooth surface. She bent over the pool and saw her own familiar face, but watched in horror as the image appeared to be engulfed in flames, melting into the pool and leaving nothing of itself — of her — behind. The woman took a shocked breath and would have moved away from this frightening vision, but there was the hawk again, on her shoulder, whispering, “Stay!”

And so she did.

She forced herself to keep her eyes open as one gruesome, graphic image after another was illuminated in the pool. After each, the hawk reminded her to breathe, until finally she was able to witness the devastation without becoming tense, without forgetting to breathe; indeed, without judgment or emotion. She had always thought that the opposite of emotional response was apathy, but realized now that apathy itself was an emotion. What she was experiencing  went beyond emotions, a wordless place of endless possibilities that, within the confines of a limited human vocabulary, could only be called Love.

Instructions January 31, 2015

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Listen up, all of you. Once you have set out, it may be awhile before you have another chance to ask questions. Some of you will be gone a long time; some will be back almost immediately. Remember, it is not the length of the journey that is important, or even what you accomplish along the way, only that you complete it.

You will begin your quest right here, in this place, by turning yourself counterclockwise three times with your eyes closed. Then, without looking, you will slide into time at that skinny space between past and future, and turn to squarely face the present. Once there you must always be on the alert and watch for any discomfort or unwillingness on your part to be fully engaged. Be honest about this at all times because, if you’re not, any unacknowledged emotions that only seem to disappear when ignored will surely come back and trip you up at the end. I can’t stress this enough, though I know some of you will forget and will likely want to lay the blame elsewhere. I will tell you now: It is not a fault of the design but a consequence of not paying attention. Heed my words!

Once you are established and the time seems right, you may proceed along the invisible path, the one that glows, but can only be seen when the inner eye is activated. If you get lost on this path, or you can’t find the light, please ask for directions, advice, water—anything you need. Ask! There will be guides at all the crucial points along the way, though sometimes you may not recognize them. Some may look like beautiful angels, to be sure, but some of the guides may be cranky, crippled, miserable, homeless, hungry, rich or poor. Some will be well dressed and well educated, some not. Some you will like, though it is not necessary. Some are not even human. Animals, books, trees, and the like, even illnesses can all show up as guides and can help you find the way, as long as you’re not afraid to interact with them and ask for help.

This is where you get to experiment—have fun! There is no script, save for the very beginning and the very end. What you do in the infinite present in between is totally up to you.

Once you get to the end of the path, you must dig deep into the earth, using your own two hands. Get dirty! Sweaty! Smelly! It matters not how long it takes, only that the task is done. It is hard work and so worth the effort. In fact, it is necessary. You cannot retrace your steps on this journey, and this is the only way back to where you are now.

Once it is deep enough and long enough, climb down into that hole you’ve dug, lie down, close your eyes, and slow your breath until it is no more than a hint of a whisper, a ghost of a sigh. This is where it gets tricky if you have not been honest with yourself along the way. This is your last chance, and I have to say, most make a good show of it at this point; though it may be difficult, it’s not impossible. Once all loose ends are taken care of, simply roll over onto your belly and dive down into the dark, where you will find your way through that skinny portal out of the present and back home once again.

Ready? Enjoy your journey!

Cytherea September 10, 2014

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The Destroyer slipped from the darkness of the cave into the wan light of a weak-hearted morning. All around her she could feel the apathetic lethargy that encouraged those who inhabited this valley to disengage, to withdraw, to forget their connection, their shared experience of this journey. If she closed her eyes, she could feel, though not see, the source of this muddied, gray energy, and she moved resolutely in that direction. Though she walked freely, in the open, neither hiding nor altering her appearance, no one approached her, no one noted or questioned her presence among them. To do any such thing would have required engagement of a sort and these people were past any ability to do that. Maybe the children, she had thought early on in her progress through the village, but they too seemed to be mere shadows, as insubstantial as vapor, their vibrancy and innocence stolen and replaced with a naive humility that didn’t allow for anything save mere existence. That — the will to survive — was reinforced, though not supported by any appreciable means, and so the people suffered.

Her job? Destroy the suffering!

The Destroyer used no name and hid herself well, when necessary, behind her cloak of anonymity. Here in this abysmal place, there was no need to hide, but this unknowablity had always been her most potent weapon, the sword she used to slice through illusion. It had served her well . . . until now. Now the gray veil of apathy that hung over the village threatened to drag her down, pull her into the abyss of the unacknowledged along with all the others. She felt herself slipping, slipping . . . and then she met the child: One little girl, unlike the others, her bright face a lone shining beacon in the sludge. Eyes open. Watching. Watching her.

She had felt the girl’s gaze before she could see her. Because of the powerful energy, she had expected to meet, perhaps, a seer from one of the other realms. But no, there was only this one, tiny human, following her approach with her eyes. When the little one spoke, she changed everything.

“I am called Lona,” the child said, her voice resonant with fairy dust and the bittersweet earth from which she was born. “I know you. I know why you are here.”

The woman was taken aback. No one had ever seen her before.  She looked into the child’s eyes and knew she could not hide. “You may call me Cytherea,” she said to the child, knowing that it was as close as she could come to a name — Cythera, the place where she was born. “How is it that you are not blind to me, like the others?”

“I have been watching and waiting,” said the girl, taking Cytherea’s hand. “My apprenticeship began before my birth, in another place and time. The details have been wiped from my memory, to help me fit in here. But the lessons have stayed with me. I am here to help you.”

Cytherea’s eyes flashed. “I work alone,” she thundered. “I need no help!”

The child only smiled. “You do,” she said.

Lona stood before Cytherea, unmoving, her green eyes glistening like clear emeralds. In their depths, Cytherea could see the vast wisdom of long-forgotten ages, times, seers, fused  into the rock-solid gem that was this wisp of a child. “Indeed,” she said finally, “you may be right.”

Cytherea was not one to back away from any battle which must be fought, but she knew better than to engage in futility. To argue with Lona would have been not only useless, she realized, but possibly fatal. The girl was that powerful.

Once Cytherea had acquiesced, the child’s eyes lost their hard gleam, but remained open, aware, alert. “This way,” she said, leading Cytherea away from the village and toward a tall mountain in the distance. The mountain’s peak was obscured by gray clouds, but Cytherea knew from the shape and the texture of its surface that it was volcanic and wondered how long it had been dormant.

“Oh, it is not dormant,” Lona said, just as if Cytherea had spoken aloud. “It is still very active and spews hot grey ash on the village from time to time.” She pointed to the tiny holes that peppered the fabric of her dress and Cytherea realized that the people had fallen into a despair born of nature and then exploited by forces whose only desire was to manipulate and control. The mountain, the ash provided the means for fear and apathy to take a stranglehold. She also realized that Lona’s answer was no coincidence and stared at her small companion with new admiration.

“Yes,” Lona said, even before Cytherea could fully form the thought. “I know what you are thinking, even before you do. As you have stayed hidden behind your anonymity, I have worked behind others’ thoughts and ideas, and have kept this gift to myself.” She smiled and her eyes shone with a feeling that Cytherea could only call compassion, though it was not a word that felt comfortable on her tongue. “I have to protect the others,” the girl said, before Cytherea could comment. “All of them. I love them.”

“Yes,” said Cytherea, shocked at the depth of the girl’s feelings. “I can see that. But isn’t that a problem for you? A stumbling block? To care so much?”

Lona looked at the woman so deeply that Cytherea felt the emerald-green point of recognition pierce her heart. “Oh!” she said, clutching her chest.

Lona seemed satisfied and softened her gaze. “Love is my power,” she said. “In the end, it is all we need to survive.”