The Hanged Man: Part 4: Yule
Post #29: In which we witness a resurrection and inescapable parting ...
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Figures circled the fire, which roared and spat sparks, burning so brightly it threw the surrounding trees and forest into total darkness. Mary could see nothing clearly but the fire itself.
A tall powerful form came forward to meet them, knelt and gathered the old man into her arms. Mary recognized Hel. Firelight fell onto her face, proud and remote, aged and ageless. She gestured the two women and the child into the circle around the bonfire. An owl called again, nearly overhead, and a pale shadow floated into a tall pine tree overlooking the clearing.
Molly watched it with delight, then clutched at Mary’s arm.
“Look!”
From behind the tree in which the owl perched stepped a stag, glowing with white light. His antlers were curved and knotted like an elaborate crown, garlanded with green and ablaze with red candles.
It seemed to Mary all the world was in darkness except for this clearing, where star shine and flame united, wreathed in gnarled black trees.
Hel stood facing the fire, cradling the old man, his cloak hanging in tattered folds around him. He seemed like a child in her arms. Had he diminished — or was Hel taller and statelier than ever before? Even as the word “stately” passed through Mary’s mind, Hel began to sway, rocking from side to side in the ancient instinctive rhythm of one soothing a baby. She pressed the old man to her like a mother, and Mary heard her speak in a low, comforting chant.
“Rest now. Rest now. Rest now.”
Other voices around the circle took it up, slow, lingering on the “sss” until the two words sounded like the ebb and flow of the sea, or wind in tree boughs, or the hiss of snow.
Mary joined in, swaying, though her arms were empty. It was a like a dance made of leaping flame, stars, winter wood, and beings elemental, primordial, keepers of an endless circle around an endless fire.
“Rest now. Rest now. Rest now.”
Hel turned to her left and passed the old man’s body into the arms of a man whose face was shadowed under his hat brim. On one shoulder perched a large black bird Mary thought must be a raven.
The man held aloft a knife, blade gleaming in firelight, then used the tip of it to rip the cloak. Mary heard the tearing sound of the wool, but only in imagination, as the roar of the fire blotted out other small sounds.
“Rest now. Rest now. Rest now.”
The knife disappeared and the man held the old one against his shoulder like a father, like a chieftain, like a king. The male tenderness of it made Mary’s eyes burn with tears.
Fire burned. Night wheeled over them.
The man gave his burden to a short woman next to him, nearly as wide as she was tall, whose outline Mary recognized instantly. It was Baubo.
Baubo swayed, clasping the old man, and Mary remembered how the old woman held Lugh the day she arrived at Yule House, the feel of her breast squirting milk as they laughed. Watching her cradling the old man made her breasts tingle as though they were once again overflowing with milk.
“Rest now. Rest now. Rest now.”
The fire breathed, the figures around it adding their breath until Mary felt she swayed in the sea, or was carried in the bosom of some great-winged creature, flying between forest and stars. It was like a song, that cosmic breath. Like a heartbeat.
Next to Baubo stood a child about Molly’s age with a head of kinky dark hair falling to her shoulders. She seemed to be nearly naked but gold earrings flashed in the firelight, swaying, as she accepted the old man’s body. She held him easily, as though he weighed no more than a desiccated stick of wood. Rolling the old man forward to lean against her chest, the child pulled the feather off the back of the cloak and thrust it into her thick hair.
Mary let out a cry of protest, soundless above the burning fire.
“Rest now. Rest now. Rest now.”
The child rocked the old man. As Mary watched she seemed not a child, but the embodiment of maternal nurture, boundless, endless. The tenderness in line of neck, cheek and lip as she looked down was ancient, eternal.
Fire burned. Night wheeled over them.
The child handed the old man, more and more like a bundle wrapped in a rag, to a tall figure swathed entirely in a cloak. At her feet a large dog sat, yellow-eyed like a wolf. Mary knew them both. Hecate and her wolf familiar.
“Rest now. Rest now. Rest now.”
Hecate, like Hel, had never struck Mary as maternal, but she held the swaddled bundle against her bosom, rocking, swaying, seeming to speak to the night, the season, and the cycle, as well as the tired old man in her arms.
“Rest now. Rest now. Rest now.”
Next in the circle stood Mother, who took the old man against her generous bosom, looking into his face.
Molly stood between Mary and Mother, and Mary was concerned the old man would be too heavy for her to hold, but Molly readily took him, showing no strain, and bent her head over him. Her thick hair fell, hiding her face and brushing the old man’s neck. She rocked as though she’d been soothing babies against her shoulder all her short life.
Fire burned. Night wheeled over them.
“Rest now. Rest now. Rest now.”
When Mary received him, wrapped in what had once been a cloak of rich, warm crimson, now hanging in shredded strips around the old man’s bony framework, she searched his face. She saw sunken, shadowed eye sockets, folded lips around what were surely toothless gums, a thin blade of a nose, a gaunt cheek frosted with stubble. A thick gold ring pierced his left earlobe. Firelight glinted on remnants of rich embroidery — poppies and sheaves of golden wheat, birds and trees, a lion with amber eyes and mane, dragonflies and butterflies with jeweled wings, beads and charms and gems. He weighed no more than a newborn child.
“Rest now. Rest now. Rest now.”
Could it be? In Yule House, hadn’t she heard the story of Dar’s cloak — at the end of his life? Surely the story of Dar, too, but she couldn’t think of that. She could only think of the end of the cloak. After all, Dar had lain safely in the cradle with his brother even as Hecate told the story. This minute Lugh slept in his bed, round limbed and, no doubt, grubby. He couldn’t be here — at the end of his life. Could he?
‘Time is not here.’
Was it possible this old man had once been her child — or her lover? For he, too, had possessed such a cloak.
Stars spun slowly across the vast night. Trees, snow crystals, frost and ice, restless sea and all spirits abroad whispered and hummed in music and words beyond human ears. Mary knew nothing of it. She swayed, seeing only firelight shining on the ragged crimson cloak.
Fire burned. Night wheeled over them.
There came a moment when Mary knew morning approached. It was still far off, but it approached.
Fire burned. Mary rocked.
A long time later, “Morning is coming,” whispered Molly. It was the first she’d spoken since seeing the owl’s pale glimmer alight in the tree. How many hours ago? thought Mary. How many nights ago?
Fire burned, but less brightly now.
No, Mary thought, the fire isn’t less bright. Dawn comes.
The faceless man flung his hand up into the air, releasing a handful of garnets and rubies — from the cloak, of course, Mary thought — but as they fell into the fire they hissed wetly, like blood.
Baubo tossed a lock of bright hair, the color of corn, into the heart of the flames.
The little girl with dark hair threw a bone. It flew up into the air, end over end, white as ivory, white as antler, rounded ends and graceful shaft, and fell into the flames.
The White Stag left his place under the owl’s perch and stood near Hecate, head lowered, candles guttering. She lifted the garland of greenery off his antlers and gave it to the fire, along with the melted remains of the candles, each one making the fire burn hot while it was consumed.
Mother held a bag in her hand. With amazement, Mary watched her tip grains from the bag into her hand. Seeds! She hadn’t known Mother carried a seed pouch.
The old woman flung the seeds into the fire, each one glinting and catching the firelight like a handful of sparks or stars.
In a swift movement, Hel scooped the old man’s body out of Mary’s arms and threw him up in the air. He seemed to float for a moment, pale and ragged as an old leaf, and then he drifted down into the center of the fire, which had burned down to a soft fringe of flame over a bed of ash and ember. He lay, a small mound under a crimson rag, ringed with low flames.
Warm air fluttered against Mary’s cheek. A flame of gold flew past her, trailing soft feathers, jeweled wings ablaze. It flew low over the dying fire. Round childish arms reached up from the ragged cloak and the Firebird’s taloned toes clamped around them. The huge bird flashed through the silent winter trees, golden, ablaze, the child’s head glowing like a candle as it swung between the Firebird’s legs … and the sun rose, sending dazzling light straight into their eyes, so they were forced to look away. The clearing rang with laughter, childish, joyous, trailing away in the new morning.
Mary found herself on her knees, she and Molly weeping together and locked in a tight embrace.
“The golden man,” Molly sobbed, “The golden man! The sun man! The golden bird!”
And Mary thought, My lover! My son! She didn’t know if she wept for grief or joy.
Gradually, they quieted. Light around them grew brighter. They began to hear the soft sounds of birds in the trees. Mary felt stiff and cold and concerned for the child. They needed to get back to Janus House. Mother, too, must be tired after such a night. She released her hold on Molly, wiped her cheeks and caressed her bright hair.
“It’s all right,” she said gently. “It’s all right now. Molly, we must go back to Janus House.” She rose heavily to her feet and took Molly’s hand again in her own.
“Mother?” The old woman wasn’t there. They called and searched, but she wasn’t there. Neither was anyone else. Hel, Baubo, Hecate, the strange dark child, the man with the shadowed face — all were gone. The tree where the owl had perched was empty, the White Stag vanished. The fire was out, smelling of bitter cinders.
“Do you think she went back with Hel?” asked Molly.
“I don’t know,” said Mary. She didn’t think so. She thought Mother was gone. And yet…not gone. She seemed in some way close, closer than another person could ever be. “I think she’s still here with us, though we can’t see her. Can you feel her, Molly?”
The child shut her eyes. She looked pale and exhausted, standing there in her red coat with her tearstained face. Still, she smiled, opening her eyes. “Yes, I feel her too. She says we should go home and get warm and… and… drink a cup of tea!”
Mary laughed and the two of them set out through the woods, soon finding Molly’s path beneath their feet. In a few minutes, they reached Janus House, where the back door stood open, Hel waiting for them on the threshold. Mary walked straight into her arms.
MIRMIR
“Was the party for my birth or my death?” growled the Hanged Man. “A long, cold walk in a dark forest alone and then immolation!”
“Dar didn’t have a party,” said Mirmir.
“Dar hated parties,” snapped the Hanged Man, “as you well know! Stop baiting me and get on with it, now you’ve spoiled our birthday story.”
CHAPTER 14
MARY
They didn’t see Mother again but they developed a habit of speaking of her and to her as though she was present. Mary found if she asked Mother a question in her thoughts and held herself quiet and open, an answer always came in Mother’s very voice and intonation, and with her earthy humor. She missed the old woman’s touch, the affectionate strength of her embrace and the lines in her face when she smiled, but her spirit remained with Mary and she leaned on it with confidence.
Mary didn’t speak about what she’d seen. Did they witness past, present or future during that long night? In this place, there was no telling. But what she’d seen gave her peace. Wherever her boys and their father were in the world — or out of it — they were not alone and uncared for. They were part of a larger pattern, and so was she. They were receiving what they needed. In the now of that night their circles briefly touched. In another circle, Dar slept in the desert. Somewhere in their circles they were young children guarded by faithful Baubo as well.
Molly had been deeply moved by the “golden man,” as she always referred to him. Mary wasn’t sure how the child understood what she’d seen and didn’t question her closely. Molly spoke of him with longing and a kind of reverence, as though she’d seen a thing beyond words, a thing beyond reason and belief or even hope.
The Firebird — for Mary felt certain it was the Firebird -- they did speak of. Mary told Molly what she’d heard about the golden bird. Molly listened, fascinated.
One morning after breakfast they layered on coats, scarves and mittens and went out together. The path beneath their feet wasn’t familiar. It didn’t twist and meander over snow-blanketed landscape to the forest the way Mary’s did, and neither did it make for the Owl Tree, as Molly’s did. In fact, it skirted the forest altogether and they soon realized it was leading them down to sea.
They’d both wanted to explore this place and now it seemed the time had arrived. The path led them carefully down a stony slope, cutting back and forth with steep turns so they descended gradually. Slabs of rock lay propped at angles. In the shallows, slabs of ice, broken into huge jagged blocks by rising and falling tide and temperature, creaked and groaned as they rubbed together.
It was a wild, desolate scene and Mary cautioned the child to stay off the unstable ice. It was a still morning and the sun struck warm on rock faces. The path, having taken them safely to shore, disappeared, and they walked along, exploring and picking up rocks and an occasional shell or treasure washed up by the sea. They came around a great boulder and stopped short. Leaning against it with her face in the sun and her legs folded beneath her sat a young woman.
She wore a wool hat over a rich cascade of dark curling hair. Her skin was a warm olive and her eyes, which she opened at their abrupt appearance, were dark. She showed no surprise on seeing them but smiled and held out a hand to Molly, who went to her at once. Mary thought they knew each other, but the stranger said, looking up at Molly and swinging her hand, “Hello. My name’s Eurydice.”
“I’m Molly. And this is Mary.”
“Will you sit with me?”
They dropped down beside her on the stony shingle. The sun felt warm. Mary loosened her scarf and the neck of her coat and took off her hat. She leaned against the rock next to Eurydice, luxuriating in the sun.
“This is the closest I can come to my home,” said Eurydice quietly. “When I close my eyes in the sun with the sea nearby, I remember it so clearly.”
“Where did you live?” asked Molly.
Eurydice smiled rather sadly. “I lived on an island in a blue sea. It was hot there, and dry, but there were olive trees and flowers and the sea was always nearby.”
“Are you staying at Janus House?” asked Mary.
“Yes. I think you’re both guests as well?”
“Yes, we are. We had another friend, but she left.”
“I’ve heard one leaves when the right moment comes, but I don’t know how the moment comes or how one recognizes it.”
“’Time is not here,’” murmured Mary.
“Exactly! It’s a little confusing, isn’t it?”
“It’s entirely confusing,” said Mary and they laughed together, making friends.
“Well,” said Eurydice, “I don’t leave today.”
“No,” Mary agreed. “I — we — don’t leave today, either.”
“You’re beautiful,” said Molly suddenly, looking into Eurydice’s face.
Warm color rose in her cheeks. “So are you,” she said. Mary saw the shine of tears in her eyes.
“Are you sad?” inquired the child.
“Yes. Well, no, not sad exactly. I’m… I’m lost. I mean, I know I’m at Janus House. And my path brings me here.” She indicated the rocky shingle. “The path seems to know me.”
“Maybe you don’t feel you know yourself?” suggested Mary. She realized how young Eurydice was, much closer in age to Molly than to herself.
“No. That’s it. I don’t know who I am or what I am or what I’m supposed to be doing. I have this feeling I’m hidden from myself and I can’t find…me. Before I came here, I thought I was getting close to knowing, to discovering, but then I was interrupted.” She stayed silent for a few minutes and Mary didn’t press her. “Then I came here.”
“I want to explore,” said Molly. She sprang to her feet from her cross-legged position on the shingle.
“Don’t go on the ice,” said Mary.
“I know. You said already!”
She wandered away, bending now and then to pick something up. Mary reached over and shook out the child’s discarded scarf and hat, folding them together neatly and putting them with her own. “Do you want to tell me about it?” she asked Eurydice.
“Yes, I think I do.”
“I was born a tree nymph on an island. My family lived with olive trees. I felt restless. I wanted more than roots and leaves. I wanted something unexpected to happen. I wandered away from my tree so often it grew sick and didn’t bear well. My parents were frustrated with me and tried to get me to settle down, but I couldn’t.
There was a musician, a young man called Orpheus, who played the lyre. People said his gift of music came from the Gods. When Orpheus played on his golden lyre, flowing water stood still to listen. Rocks and trees uprooted themselves to follow him. Nothing could resist the enchantment of his playing.
We met one day. He came to the village near our home and I snuck away to hear him play. I’ll never forget the passion and magic of his music. He was young and powerful, the handsomest man I’d ever seen. He was nothing like the dusty, hard-working boys I saw every day. He touched my hand and we looked into each other’s eyes. I would have done anything for him — anything. He might have used me however he pleased. He was honorable, though, and wanted to marry me.
It was like a dream. Nothing mattered to me then but him, his touch, his face, his presence, and most of all his music. We were married. I didn’t say goodbye properly to my family. I only cared about Orpheus and the music. He said I was his joy and he couldn’t play if I wasn’t near.
Then, just a few weeks after the wedding, I walked with my attendants in a meadow while Orpheus played. Something moved at my feet and I felt a sharp, stinging pain in my ankle. A snake glided away into the grass and I fell, the scent of bruised grass in my nose and the sound of my attendants screaming for help fainter and fainter in my ears. Then music and meadow and world were gone. All gone.”
She sounded absolutely desolate. Mary felt as shaken and griefstricken as though she’d witnessed the whole thing. She reached out and took Eurydice’s plump hand.
“What came before is a dream,” Eurydice resumed. “A dream of light and color and him…always him…his touch and his music. Then a sudden dark slash of pain and the dream was gone…
I was in a different time and place, quiet and shadowed. I possessed no body. Nothing I knew before was there. I found a door in a stone wall and it… called to me. I wanted to sit in front of it for a long time and think. I wanted to listen, to be absolutely still and see what would come. I felt peaceful and patient. I settled into being with the door like settling a tired body onto a soft bed at the end of the day. I didn’t think. I just was.
I didn’t think of Orpheus, back in the Green World. I didn’t think about what happened to him after I died.
He went mad with grief. He refused to leave my tomb. He refused to eat or drink or speak. He played upon his lyre, though. He played, hour after hour, day and night. His lament stole between trees and blades of grass, wound over mountains and sea. He played his grief and loss and everything that heard him grieved with him for every blossom, every tree, valley, hill and life lost since the beginning of time. The stones wept tears of crystal. The moons veiled themselves low on the horizon and the stars shone wearily, remembering infinite worlds of loss. And still Orpheus wouldn’t be comforted, though everyone begged him to cease his river of grief.
He followed me. He ventured where no living man had yet ventured. He came at last to the throne of Hades. He knelt with his lyre upon his arm and played and the Underworld stilled.
Hades told Orpheus he might take me out of the Underworld because of his courage and his music. I was to follow Orpheus out, but he wasn’t to look back until we were out of the tomb’s shadow and back in the Green World.
I followed him all the way up to the tomb. He stepped into sunlight and looked back at me with such joy and triumph on his face… But I still walked in shadow. I turned away from him then. I left the sound of his anguish and the Green World. I couldn’t go back. I didn’t want to go back.
That was all. The tomb closed. The way was kept against Orpheus. It was over.”
(This post was published with this essay.)