Honeycomb Moon

Old Woman Song February 1, 2014

As secrets strengthened, shadows lengthened, and a deep bewitching darkness settled on the land, the old woman raised her voice and began to sing. Hers was not melodic, was not consistent in key or pitch, but it was strong and it rang with truth — a truth that had been lost for generations.  The old woman herself did not know the song, but her body remembered, and so she sang.

As her voice was carried on the currents of the wind that wound and spiraled through the village, into the gardens, around the well, even seeping into the cracks and crevices in doors and windows and walls, people began to awaken. Herbs and flowers hummed, calling the bees to come out, into the night. Moths and butterflies flitted about on the notes of the song, and the dark moon smiled her wan light, ultimately relinquishing her power to the stars, splashed brilliantly on the canvas of the midnight sky.

The old woman sang on through the night, her voice becoming stronger as her body grew more tired. The people had joined in, singing the strange words and dancing to the strange tune with steps they had never learned, but seemed to know.

The children appeared to understand what was going on, though they didn’t have the words to describe it to their parents. On this night, no one slept, no one tired, except the old woman whose body was the conduit for the magick that infused them.

When morning came, the people came out of their trance, looking sheepishly at each other as if they had been caught being foolish. They laughed, their eyes averted, and began to make their way back to their homes.

Only the children stayed with the old woman, who had fallen into a deep sleep.