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?”

Wendybird

As I stepped off the jetty, I looked back to see the ferrywoman now departing back to Duwamish Bay. 

I saw ahead of me a grove of apple trees, there was a path in the midst of them illumed by the moonlight. I followed this path wondering where it would lead. Ahead of me I saw a mound. I approached the mound and looked around to the side where I saw a doorway, at each side of the door stood two upright stones, upon them were two burning torches.

I reached for a burning torch and opened the door. Ahead of me was a passageway, which was quite dark, this frightened me a little but then I say a faint red glow at the end of the passageway, I relaxed and began my journey into the depths of the mound.

My steps led me into a shadowy great hall. In the centre was a hearth with glowing embers from a fire. Seated in front of this fire with its back towards me was a mysterious  hooded figure. For an instance, I thought of turning back but then a feeling of love and peace swept over me and I proceeded to a bench across from the hooded figure.

I sat and just looked at the hooded figure wandering who it was. In that instance it turned to face me and removed the hood. It was my dad! I burst into tears and jumped up to rush toward him.

He stopped me by holding up one hand and saying to me, ‘as much as I love you and want to hug you too, we cannot, for I am no longer of the earthly realm’.

My heart sank as I sat back down. Fighting back the tears I said, ‘I’ve really missed you dad’.

‘I know’, he replied, ‘I have missed you too but trust that I watch over all of you, as you know, you have felt my presence at times, haven’t you?’

‘Yes dad, I have and I thank you for those times, without them I don’t think I could have gone through things’.

‘Yes you could have, for you are stronger than you think you are, you must know this, believe it, trust me, I see things from a greater perspective now. This is why we are having this meeting, is there something you wish to ask me?’

‘Oh, dad, where do I begin, there are so many things’.

‘Just the one thing, something you really want to know, there will be other times we can talk’.

‘There is something bothering me dad, you know I believe in spiritual growth, practices etc. Why does it seem so difficult to connect with, see and speak to our guides, angels and loved one’s?’

‘You should know this, you use to be quite adarmant about being able to, remember? I admired your faith - you know - faith being the operative word. You tend to lack it a little when you need it the most, you allow others disbelief to shake your own faith, especially when combined with hurtful words.

You must hold firm to your beliefs and realise they know not what they say or how much they hurt you, it is them in the dark, not you. Pray for their enlightenment and shield yourself from their negativity.  Now, may I ask a question of you?’

A little shocked, I answered ‘yes dad, of course’.

‘You need to take better care of yourself. When your feeling down, get outside with nature, breathe in the fresh air, refresh yourself, energise yourself. Become as a little child.  Remember how you loved to play amongst nature?  You need nature, it inspires you, brings you peace and greater health.  You know all of this, why do you not do it as often as you can?’

‘I, I guess I just consider myself too busy like you use to dad. I don’t really know why but I do know you are right and thank you for reminding me by asking this question of me’.

Dad then handed me a gift saying, ‘keep this with you to help you to remember our conversation and my love for you’.

It was a silver cross embedded with coloured crystals that represented the main charkra’s, plus the two ear charkra’s.

‘It is to remind you to keep your charkra energy centres clear and energised, partly, by getting out in the fresh air and into nature’s energy, you know and are beginning to practice clearing meditations and this will help you to remember to do them too’.

I thanked my dad and tears began to flow again thenI remembered a crystal I was carrying, a ‘Rose quartz’, I took it out and handed it to my dad, saying, ‘take this as a token of my thanks and undying love, I know you don’t need it but please take it, I want to give it to you.’

‘Thank you daughter, now it is time you must go, your ferrywoman has returned and is waiting to take you back to Duwamish Bay.  Fear not, nor be discouraged, we shall meet again’.

I wanted to cry out, ‘no I don’t want to go’! I swallowed my words and began to follow the path out which led me behind the hearth.  As I passed by my dad, I looked into his eyes one last time and was filled with such a great feeling of love and peace, I heard his voice, not with my ears but somehow in my heart, saying, ‘remember, we shall meet again, anytime you wish, think of me and I’ll be there, I love you my child’.

By now I was at the passageway out, I could contain it no longer and ran out and back down the path through the apple tree grove and to the jetty as fast as I could. Tears were streaming down my face.

I saw the ferrywoman who brought me to the Isle of Ancestors, I boarded her boat, she did not say a word as I boarded and left me alone, which I was very thankful for.  After I had settled down, she said, ‘having time with our loved ones should bring us great blessings and happy memories, you will know this soon.

You are a little upset because you cannot hug them and stay with them permanently, know this dear one, they stay with you permanently.  You only need to think of them and they are there for you, remember this child and soothe your heart with its promise, for no one leaves the Isle of Ancestors alone…

Morgaine

Camelot Scribe.

I am the one who opens my arms to you inviting you into my embrace
My hips are wide and my lap is large
I am the one who strokes your hair and says “there, there” as we rock
Your tears wet my shawl.

I am the one who says both and
My love for you is both fierce and tender
I am the one who does not push or pry
Your gratitude reflects in my eyes.

I am the one who hears your pleas
My attention does not wander as you cry in pain
I am the one who isn’t bored with all the details
You are heard

Together we are mending ourselves
The Ferry Woman of me and I.
Rocking, crying, talking, laughing
I am she and she is I.

Soulwright

First steps…

Once again I find myself on the precipice – one foot extended over the abyss – blissfully, innocently unaware of the gaping chasm – for this is the fool’s journey – the trip through the wheel of life. Finding myself at the completion of a four year journey into the underworld, resting topside for a bit, I find myself excited and embracing this new journey.

I bring the wisdom and experiences of every ascent and every descent to the portal. I lower myself to the ground – rest my forehead on the earth – breathing slowly – making contact with the firmament. I rise, open my arms, bare my chest and heart to the starfilled sky and bathe in the light of the moon mother – making contact with the heavens. I wrap myself in my own embrace – swaying and twirling – making contact with my center.

Now – I am ready to travel this sacred path with Enchanteur. It is her imagery that first attracted me to this site – and from here to Soul Food Cafe and the other corners of Lemuria – but the Baba Yaga and the night rides – were magnetic forces that I could not resist.

So here I am… a woman approaching the sixth decade of her life… once again at the beginning – adventure awaits me here…

Shall we commence?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Posted by Soulwright

Hello everyone, I finally figured out we’ve moved again, sorry, sometimes I’m a bit slow.  I’ll now try to copy and move my works from lemurian_abbey.blogspot to here, wish me luck!  I don’t really know if this is the correct thing to do Heather, so let me know if it’s not, nor do I know which category to put this in.

A Room in The Abbey.

My journey to Glastsonbury came as a surprise not only to myself but also to Gallahad and Angel. Not too long after leaving The Cave of the Enchantress a messenger caught up with us and handed me a scroll.

Intrigued, I opened it. I could not contain my joy as I read the words, ‘an invitation to claim a room at the Leumarian Abbey, Glatsonbury’. I smiled so much my mouth ached. Thanking the messenger, I turned to Gallahad and ordered gleefully, “a change of plans Gallahad, we’re going to Glatsonbury’!

“Glatsonbury”! What happenned to finding the Gypsy Camp”? Asked Gallahad. “We will still visit the Gypsy Camp but for now we go to Glatsonbury and I wish to hear no more about it”!

Gallahad is a donkey of distinction, dare I say a gentleman, who knows when to keep quiet so he decided to read my mind rather than ask any more questions. He also has an uncanny sense of direction and before I knew it we were on our way. “Not too long, not too long and you’re nearly home”, whispered Angel from my bag.

Morgaine rode quietly upon Gallahads back thinking, remembering. She had never been to the Abbey in Glatsonbury even though it was situated quite close to her beloved Avalon.

Avalon was like her second home, she had been moved there as a child to learn the ways of the Goddess and become the next teacher and keeper of those ways.

When the mists enveloped Avalon for the final time, Morgaine knew there was no return to ‘paradise’. Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered the happinness, sadness and the deceit that closed the mists of Avalon for all time. She, who was the pawn in the game, manipulated by others, felt like the mists had also closed around her heart forever. How could she ever trust again?

If all that was not enough Arthur had died and the Saxons invaded, leaving a trail of destruction behind them. Camelot, the once bustling, happy town was ruined. Morgaine escaped to the hills
and claimed an abandoned farm which she named Camelot, here, she could live in peace. A few villages and their families had followed her believing she could keep them safe, these she hired to work the farm.

The Saxons moved on and up to conquer, the villagers and Morgaine settled in to life and work on the farm, yet Morgaine was still restless. One of the villages told Morgaine about a journey called the Silk Road, she had also heard it from a travellor before the Saxons came, it was then Morgaine determined to take the Silk Road Journey, herself – it was what she needed.

Morgaine left her Camelot the next afternoon confident the villages would not let her down, after all, it was their home too. So here she is travelling to Glatsonbury, about as close as she’ll ever get to Avalon.

posted by Morgaine @ 10:56 PM   2 comments  

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.”

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.

you’all seem to like these medieval stories. This one is ‘manly’,
yet the real courage lies with a woman …
as with many of my stories it is 20% fact, 40% period documentation
and 40% imagineering …
but then — perhaps I was there

papa faucon
………………………………………………………..

THE BEAR

Koynan stood motionless beside the scrub pine and viewed the lumbering train of carts and horsemen that skirted the edge of the dark forest. He did not attempt to hide, for experience had shown that his eyesight was far more distant-keen than that of the soldiers from the West. With the sun behind him he had no fear of reflection from the jewels on his helm. His cloak was wrapped around the scabbard of a great curving sword to still it in the breeze, while the slight flutter of his doublet against chain mail echoed the quickening pace of his heart. The ambush and assault was imminent and well planned. However, the Alan warrior placed only partial confidence in an attack plan scratched into the sandy soil of the steppes. As the leader of the marauding band he placed more faith in the skill of his men to react quickly to changes of battle and the silent preparation each would make in playing out the attack in advance. Such was the way of his people. They had not lost a decisive battle in more than 1200 years. The Roman legions avoided them and the slavs had been quickly subdued. For more than 500 years the Alan had lived by extracting tribute and ransom from the Magyar towns, as they did from the Turkish Marmalukes. He thirsted for real battle. It was fortunate, he thought, that the armored knights had come from the west. Such armor already hung on poles before his tent.

The supply train consisted of 20 mounted knights in colorful surcoats and glistening coifs escorting a cadre of women and Dominican Friars-Preachers. These were followed, at a distance, by a mixed collection of oxen and serf-pulled carts of varying size. The rear guard of six knights had been reduced to four when two had ridden into the woods in search of game. They would not return! A thick undergrowth of hazel brush mixed with birch and tall pines to make passage within the safety of the forest impossible. The mottled hues of green, yellow and white produced a languid affect on the soldiers in the warming morning sun. Only the serfs remained alert, probing ahead with their long staffs for rodent holes that might cause the cattle to stumble. Even then, thoughts were on reaching the safety of the village before nightfall, thankful for a night on a straw pallet rather than the hard ground beneath a leaky cart.

Koynan played out his role in the ambush in his mind. When the train reached the river ahead they would have to come down to the shallows away from the trees. He knew that the mounted knights and travelers would cross first, separating them from the struggling carts. They could not know that a band of 40 hid behind the group of kurgan mounds to the south. At this point, Koyan would lead his band of six in charge from the thicket into the carts while his pair of comrades in the woods would spear the rear guard and join the melee. When the knights turned to aid the caravan they would be attacked from the rear by an infamous Alan spear charge. Only the serfs would be spared, as they also tilled the fields and gathered honey from the dark woods. He had given his own two spears to the forest warriors for their part and would rely solely on his proven skill with scimitar and lasso. His steed would attack on its own with only his knees to guide it. Even if he dismounted, Thron would guard his back with slashing hooves. He joined his band in the thicket for a last fortifying drink of fermented curdled mare’s milk and awaited the crossing.

Aldic was called Bern after the brown forest bear that foraged near his homeland Odra valley. His size, ferocity and tinge of red in his hair had forged the nickname. Even Aldic was not his true name. As a peasant miller he had no official name. He had joined the forces of Charles the Lame years earlier with nothing but a shingling froe for a weapon. The name meant “stalwart one”, and its conference by Charlemagne was a granting of knighthood in a sense. Leadership and promotion came from action within the Frankish armies, rather than from effete noblistic abuse. Thus, Aldic the Bern did not lead from the head of his troops, but rather from the front of a cart where he knew the battle would be the thickest. His cowled robe hid helm, hauberk and two-handed barbarian sword across his back. His walking staff had inlayed strips of iron and a dagger was strapped upside down against his thigh. An instinct born of experience told him that the attack was coming. A low whistle alerted the rear guard and other disguised knights. Swords were loosened in their scabbards.

The charging Alan came when only half the carts were in the stream and Aldic still on land, else he might have perished in the assault. The thunder of hooves gave fair warning and he had time to pull the great lance head from its sheath and affix it to the end of his staff. Thus prepared, he did not run as a serf might, but turned to meet the charging war-horse Thorn. With the butt of the shaft anchored beneath his foot, Aldic dropped to knee and saw the spearhead true to the chest of the steed. The force of the impact sent the splayed point a foot through bone and muscle and levered the beast high into the air. With slashing knife the knight severed the saddle straps and rolled aside as horse and surprised Koynan came crashing to earth. With his curved sword trapped beneath saddle and flesh Koynan had an eternity to contemplate the terrible bearded visage that approached from the dust cloud. He did not even attempt to avoid the awful slash of steel that sparkled against the sky. He thought only of his bride in the distant camp and the honor she would feel over his death in battle. In some ways he was fortunate to die quickly. He did not see that the soldiers emerging from the woods were not his, nor the swordsmen who sprang from the covered carts, nor women and friars who became archers and a brought a rain of death.

She did not feel honor, nor dread with the approach of the Frankish soldiers. She knew that Koynan must be dead now and unable to protect her, but also that the western knights did not war on women and children. She wondered why they came. “Ah, the horses of course.” They Alan horses were legend across the land, both a basis of survival and trade. As she was the wife of the leader, and a Princess in her own right, she came out to meet them, her black hair betraying a Scythian rather than Alan heritage. The largest man she had ever seen dismounted and approached her stand, placing at her feet the armor and weapons of her defeated husband. She knew instantly that all of the Alan warriors were gone. She also somehow knew that their hubris had killed them, not the powerful knights. A known enemy was indeed a blunt sword and this Frankish chieftain clearly knew more about Alan customs than Koynan had known of theirs.

Other knights were collecting all the spare horses, leaving only enough for the tribal band to return to their people. Without the horses the women would die, such was the way of the Alan. They were clearly to hastily depart the land of the Agar, but still, she did not move. She had been drawn to the fire of Koynan because of his great strength and felt now the stirring of his son within her loins. From instinct more than cunnings she made a choice. The sudden appearance of the forearm length curved short-sword in her hand did not seem to surprise this looming bear of a man. Perhaps he thought she meant to take her own life. At another time, perhaps. But the survival of Koynan’s bloodline was paramount now and she sensed that the honor and power of this strange knight could protect her. She slowly drew the blade across the thick part of her palm and handed Aldic the blade. No words or prior understanding was required. The silence between them seemed both detached and alive with fearful portent. Then a smile replaced his furrowed brow and he cut himself in kind. Their hands joined hotly, with her’s displaying a strength he had not expected. She held out her other hand for the Kinjal sword and smiled at his slight hesitation. Some surprises would always be good for their future years. He caller her Thrasa, which she learned meant courageous. The blood of Vikings, Huns, Mongols, Franks and Aryans mixed in their veins.

Thrasa refused to part with the proud blade even in the court of Charlemagne, and all knew that she would defend her new husband and many sons with a terrible passion. For his valor and deeds Aldic was made Baron over the valley of the Odra and became the eastern defense of the Carolingian Empire and the great Duchy of Sachen, later to be known as Saxony. Tales of the exploits of Aldebern and Thrasa became one with myth and fable. All retained a core of truth in which cunning and preparation held sway against pride and stealth. Centuries later the hordes of Ganghis Kahn would be stopped at the Oder River by the soldiers of Baron von Saxe-Odra. The Mongol warriors and Slav soldiers greatly feared the huge Teutonic Knights, resplendent in pure white with black cross and weapons. This in part was based on superstitious tales about why many of these knights had slightly slanted Mongolian eyes, and why they often charged rather than defend their ground.

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.

Wendy Olson

“It was in the winters

Before The People

Came into being

That Star Woman Came.

She saw Mother Earth

And thought her lonely.

All praise Star Woman.

Star Woman spoke to

The Great Sprit of this. 

He agreed,

Mother Earth

Needed children to love.

Together Great Spirit

And Star Woman

Fashioned The People.

Brother to the wild things.

From the dust of the Stars

From the Oceans made them.

Gave them life with

A warm breath from

White Tatanka’s mouth.

Awaken, Great Spirit’s children.

Blessed them with

Plenty, and faith.

Set them in a good land.

Made us caretakers

Of our Mother Earth.

Walk softly on our Mother.

Great Spirit spoke to them,

‘Care well for your Mother,

Love her, keep her happy.’

I will watch over you,

And shine upon you.

Great Sprit’s first promise.

In times of great trouble,

I will return to you,

And never abandon you.

You are my children,

Born of the dust of the stars

And the tears of Mother Earth.

Heed Great Spirit’s words.”

                         GwenGuin