The Hanged Man: Part 2: Mabon
Post #7: In which a woman is not alone ...
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JULIANA
The morning was dark and the floor cold beneath Juliana’s feet. The first thing she did was murmur the fire into life, giving it air, giving it kindling, fascinated as always by ember glow and blossom.
She stepped outside into the musk of leaves, wet with death, and scent of earth and smoke. The air felt uneasily still. It felt like snow.
She heated water for tea. The kitchen smelled of drying apples. The evening before she’d finished the last of them. Next year there would be harvest from her own garden. This first year she’d made do with what the land gave freely. All her attention had been focused on getting the house ready for winter, collecting firewood, seeing to the well. It would be a thin winter, but her loom stood by the fire and she could trade in the village for her simple needs. She cut up chicken, potatoes, carrots, onion and garlic for the pot, seasoned, added stock and set it on the stove. Later she’d add herbs. She made herself tea and fed the fire. She took from a basket one of the last pears, remembering the sound they’d made hitting the ground in the night outside her window as raccoons swayed like masked corsairs in the tops of the trees. She sliced them up and added them to the stacked trays of drying apples. Her right hand felt stiff and sore from wielding the knife for so many hours.
Outside, the sky lightened to grey dawn but sunrise was hidden. She ate a bowl of her own granola made with dried apples and ginger and raisins and made another cup of tea. The hearth radiated heat and she stopped adding wood. The cat jumped into her lap and purred while she ate.
She’d come to the house the day after the first snow, three weeks ago. She’d stood, heavily laden with her few belongings, taking in the river fringed with slushy snow, neglected orchard, weed-filled garden and the sad, empty house, and known she’d found home. Ever since then she’d worked all day every day, feeling winter’s inevitable approach and making plans for the future. This morning, suddenly, she felt used up. The most immediate tasks were done. Inside, she felt empty. No, she thought. Not empty. Don't say it like that. Think of it as space. Space that’s yet to be filled. Perhaps my life is here waiting for me.
She thought of all the years come and gone. Nothing but last year's fallen leaves, all those days. The end of waiting came so stealthily she’d never even seen it. One day she still waited to be loved. The next day she walked away into something else.
The old floor shone the color of honey, even in sullen storm light. The cat in her lap was the same color. She laid her hand on his comforting weight and he purred, half asleep.
She’d walked through an afternoon turned grey and chill three weeks before, bone tired, smelling snow on the cold wind and with no idea where to shelter for the night. She stopped to dig out a warm scarf and rest a minute. The pack weighed heavy. She felt tired to death of being adrift in the world.
The woods loomed, unfriendly. Trees were shedding leaves, emaciated branches stark against pewter sky. Still, they were shelter of a kind and some wild part of her reached out in response to the harsh afternoon. Something clear and unafraid in her welcomed the year's waning, sacrifice of the trees and even her own loneliness. All would go down into darkness now. Good. She wasn’t afraid of the dark. Winter ahead. Winter ahead for all. Yet something else within her cried out, "Lonely! Lonely! No one to touch, to hold! Is that over for me now?"
She pressed on, going deeper into the woods. There was nothing but wind and trees and her thoughts, blown this way and that. Walking warmed her, but the air on her face felt cold. Afternoon passed into evening. Everything was dun and grey and the wind.
Something white moving between the trees caught her eye. It was so unexpected she stopped, only aware of background rhythm of stride, breath, stretch of muscles, when it ceased. The minute she stopped she felt cold air press against her legs between the tops of her fleece boots and the hem of her cloak. She strained to see what had caught her attention. It looked like an animal. Perhaps a horse? She could think of nothing else that size that would be white. It moved slowly, gracefully, without urgency. She followed it between the trees, not afraid but curious. As she drew closer, she realized it was … a deer? A white deer …? She’d never seen a white deer. But yes, she could see antlers.
The creature stopped and turned its head to look at her out of liquid dark eyes. No, she thought. Not a deer. She’d never seen such antlers. They were perfectly balanced and intricately woven. Most of the bucks in this season carried broken prongs, for it was the time of rutting. She’d seen them, heads lowered, striking their antlers together with a sound like sticks clacking, vying for mating privileges. She walked hesitantly nearer. She didn’t think of trying to touch the animal, but the eyes compelled her. It was much bigger than any deer she’d ever seen. It was, in fact, about the size of a horse. And it seemed perfectly white, without a blemish, without a spot. It glowed in the dim woods.
She stopped, just at arm's reach. They looked at one another. She was aware of nothing but this great creature in front of her. "Is it a dream?" Her voice wavered just above a whisper. It took a step closer, lowered its head regally. She thought how heavy those antlers must be. She took her hand from her pocket and pulled off her glove, offering her bare hand, palm up. It pressed its muzzle into the cup of her hand. She felt the flick of its tongue in her palm, warmth and breath against her skin. She gasped with the wonder of it, gasped with something like joy. A hard, protective shell fell away from her. Tears sprang to her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Life and warmth raced through her body and she wanted to shout, to howl, to weep, to scream, to vomit with the awful pain of being alive.
It raised its head from her hand and looked at her again. She felt transfixed by its regard, utterly and terribly naked. She felt wholly seen. There was no place to hide. She stood helplessly, held in the creature's gaze.
Gently, silently, snow began to fall. She suddenly realized the wind was still. Dim white hush of snow fell on tree branches, on the ground, on her shoulders and scarf, and on those beautifully carved and knotted antlers.
The White Stag turned away from her and stepped gracefully through the trees. Without a thought, she followed. The woods darkened around her and snow fell as the glowing stag led her on.
After a time, the stag turned suddenly into a cleft between trees. It widened out into a narrow valley, only dimly seen through falling snow. Tree branches laced overhead into a sheltering roof.
They came to a jutting ledge of woven roots and earth, and under the ledge someone had hollowed out a shelter in the cleft wall. She heard a trickle of water and saw a spring flowing into a natural stone basin. Against the wall the ground hollowed and dipped into a cup of earth filled with dry leaves and bracken and neatly stacked furs. She realized her weariness suddenly. It was full night now. The White Stag watched her steadily out of those dark, calm eyes and Juliana felt comforted. She wasn’t alone. It wouldn’t leave her, hopelessly lost and alone in the night and the first snowfall.
The stag turned and dipped its head to the stone basin, drinking. She bent and cupped water in her hands and drank also. It tasted fresh and sweet, not as cold as she’d expected, smelling of fallen leaves. She laved her face with it gratefully, using the tail of her scarf as a towel. When she turned back to the White Stag a man stood looking at her out of the same calm, dark eyes. Without thought, she picked up a fur and draped it around his shoulders, for it was a cold night of snow and he was naked. They stood, face to face, and she trembled. He lifted her hand, opening the cup of her palm and putting his mouth to it. She felt flick of tongue, breath, and then, gently, teeth on the mound beneath her thumb.
Her knees loosened and she staggered. He swept her into the crook of his arm and knelt, laying her in the bed of leaves and bracken on a fur. She looked up into those eyes, those terrible, beautiful dark eyes. Together, they loosened her clothes and let them fall away. She felt desire, yes, but something deeper than that cried out to be held, to be comforted, so that the richness of desire, awful vulnerability and need for nurture wove together, overwhelming her. In that moment, she acknowledged her fear of being old and unseen and couldn’t bear the grief of it. She clung to him, the stag man, clung with all her strength and opened herself to the dreadful shattering wave of emotion, wise enough to know if she fought against it she’d be broken to pieces.
After a time, she became aware of the steady strong beat of his heart in her ear. It called her home, back to her body, back to this sheltered forest hollow. She let it surround her even as his arms did. It seemed to her it was the forest’s heartbeat. He breathed quietly and her own breath slowed, comforted by the nearness of another. Her fingers ached from the strength of her grip on his body and she loosened them, understanding herself part of a greater life that held her tenderly and would never let her go. She took in a deep breath. She could feel his hands now, pressing against her back, holding her firmly. She breathed again, feeling her breasts against his chest, feeling her belly push against him. Oh, to be held like this! To be held by something stronger than oneself! To give up responsibility, just for a while! To be allowed to be weak, to be afraid, to be tired! Again, tears welled in her eyes from what felt like her very roots, tears of gratitude for rest from the work of being brave. With those tears, weariness filled her as a slow tap fills a sink. She was warm. She was safe. She wasn’t alone. She settled herself yet closer against his body and felt one of his hands move away from her. The gentle weight of more skins comforted her and he tucked them in around their shoulders and sides and slid his hand under them to hold her against him again. She slept.
She dreamed. She dreamed a leaf, clinging to life and then surrendering and falling, falling gently, dancing, and alighting in a new life… She dreamed of ivory-colored antlers, twined and woven into an intricate pattern and holding innumerable candles, shining and gleaming like stars, like snowflakes… She dreamed of walking down into the earth’s body past layers of bracken and leaves, still smoldering with color like embers, layers of tired white bones--or were they antlers?--that became brown and copper and russet of roots and then rocks, buried and unseen but holding up the roots … She dreamed of a handful of leaves, dry and fragile, with their scent of old things, and the rough feel of a tree trunk against her cheek.
She dreamed a handful of black seeds. They were cold, like chips of ice. They burned her flesh with their cold. She felt afraid of them because they were death. They were utterly dead and cold, dry and hard. She wanted to cast them away. It seemed as though her hand would never again be warm or free of their chill. Her hand wouldn’t turn over and release them. She couldn’t let them go. As she looked in horror at the palm of her hand where they lay, she saw a fragile thread of light, golden and warm, and then another and another. The seeds cracked open, releasing light, rich and beautiful. One by one the seeds opened until her palm held a web of light and warmth.
The light winked out, and against her cheek she felt the short white coat of an animal, coarse and oily, smelling wild.
She dreamed of being uncovered in a dim place, but not alone, for she was touched. Every bump and scar and line, every hidden fold and cleft was smoothed and explored. She felt breath upon her body and knew he drank her scent. She felt hands, lips, long strokes of a tongue. She felt skin and bone and hair. She felt utterly loved, utterly cherished. She felt seen. She felt recognized. She felt known. She’d never known such depth of love, such tenderness, such regard. She slept.
She swam up from deep sleep through layers of light and color. Her body felt absolutely relaxed and deliciously warm. The rich smell of wet leaves came to her and she opened her eyes. She was lying in the hollow against the cleft wall, wrapped warmly in skins. Early sunlight infused the sky and tangled branches overhead were powdered with snow. The stag stood near the spring, regarding her calmly out of its great dark eyes.
She threw the skins aside. Her clothes were piled neatly under another skin and quite dry. She stood naked, running her hands through her hair and briefly over her belly, along the ridge of her hips, down her thighs. She felt strong and well. She dressed, pulling on her fleece boots, fastening her cloak and wrapping the scarf around her throat. She approached the stag and put her arms about him, laying her cheek against his neck. He smelled wild, a smell that rang like a familiar bell in the back of her mind. She shouldered her heavy pack and the stag turned and began to walk, Juliana falling into step beside him, one hand against his shoulder.
They moved up out of the cleft into the warming forest. Snow melted along branches and leaves gave up their wet scent. The stag paused, laid his muzzle against her cheek and snuffed, making the hair on her arms and neck rise in response. She felt the flick of his tongue and then he moved away through trees, disappearing into blurred light of sun on new snow and the muted colors of late autumn.
She stood for a moment, her hand against the wet trunk of a tree. The forest lived and breathed around her. She’d lain in the secret heart of it for a night, sheltered in its mystery. She was seen. She wasn’t forgotten. Her scent was part of the forest. She’d been loved in the nakedness of her self. It was enough. She turned back to the path and all the places it would take her.
The first place it took her was home.
(This was posted with this essay.)
