The Hanged Man: Part 4: Yule
Post #32: In which winter thaws at last ...
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They sat companionably, looking away from the two young people. Kunik began to drum in an intermittent, hesitant fashion, as though learning a new rhythm. The women clambered off the rock and sat behind Molly, near enough to hear but not disturbing the intimacy between boy and girl.
“Once there was and once there was not,” Kunik said in his storytelling voice, “a young rabbit who lived alone in snow and ice. He was white to help him hide because everyone wanted to eat him. Winter was cold and lonely. He was hungry all the time. His whiskers never stopped quivering and his ears never stopped twitching and listening and he never stopped looking for food unless he was asleep, curled up lonely in his burrow.”
As he spoke his fingers beat the hop, hop, hop of a wandering rabbit at ease, and then a sudden powerful jump and dodging run, and then slowing once more to a hop, hop, hop.
“This rabbit was too young to know change always comes. He thought winter would go on and on forever. He thought he would always be alone. He thought his belly would never be full and he’d never be quite warm enough. Sometimes he thought to himself, is this all there is? It didn’t seem like much of a life.
Well, one day the rabbit came across a burrow he’d never seen before. It was just a hole, rather like his own hole, but when he poked his head inside to see if it contained another rabbit who might be friendly, he smelled the most delicious smell you can imagine. A smell of grass and plants growing up out of damp earth and maybe even a shy floating wisp of a flower smell. And the air he smelled felt warm! Warm! Think of that!
Of course, he wanted to jump right into that burrow and into that lovely-smelling place. Who wouldn’t? But he found he couldn’t do it. He could poke his head in a little way and sniff all he wanted, but he couldn’t actually push his way into the burrow, no matter how hard he tried. He pushed and pushed and grew more and more frustrated. Then he became angry and he started to dig. Rabbits are good diggers, you know, with strong claws. He dug and he dug, growling rabbit growls and simply blazing with rage, but the burrow continued down in front of him no matter how hard or deeply he dug. He wore himself out trying, though.
Finally, he was forced to stop. He felt too tired to go on. His anger left him and he wanted to weep. He was cold. He was hungry. He was afraid of being eaten and now he was exhausted as well. And there in that burrow, he smelled a place better than anything he’d ever imagined and he wanted to go there more than anything he’d ever wanted. But he couldn’t. Earth clotted in his claws and he’d made a cold dirty mess under his feet and bottom. Snow lay everywhere. Nothing green, or soft or sweet scented, just cold white and grey snow and ice and, as a final piece of misery, snow began falling out of the sky. Again.”
Kunik stopped speaking but his fingers fluttered on the drum and Mary could see in her mind’s eye flakes falling on the poor little rabbit, scattered snow and earth from his efforts at digging, and the magical burrow, a hole in the ground that went down and away — somewhere else.
Molly listened intently with a look of pain on her face Mary didn’t like to see. Eurydice’s eyes were on Kunik’s face but Mary didn’t think she was really seeing him.
Kunik resumed, “Well, the falling snow was the final misery, as I said, and that little rabbit began to cry. He knew it was dangerous, because who can sniff for danger with a stuffed-up nose? But he couldn’t help himself. He cried and cried and his tears ran down his face and his snowy chest and onto the ground. His tears were warm, of course, and they melted the snow they touched. Pretty soon he’d made a slushy place on the ground in front of him. He pushed the slush around with his paws and wished he could melt the whole winter. But there weren’t enough tears in the world to melt winter. Still, if he could melt winter, he felt certain the burrow would be unblocked and he’d be able to go into it.”
“Open the way,” said Eurydice suddenly.
Kunik gave her a slanting look of amusement. “Open the way,” he agreed gravely.
“That little rabbit needed to find a way to open the burrow. His heart broke with his wanting and his longing. He needed help but had no one he could ask for help. So, finally, he returned to his own burrow and crept into it, empty stomach and all, and curled up and cried himself to sleep, wishing with all his heart for somebody to help him open the way.” Kunik spoke the last words to Eurydice.
Well, that night a strange thing happened. The little white rabbit dreamt a gentle wind began to blow. Not the harsh, cutting, icy gale that usually came to that place, but a coaxing, warmer sort of wind that caressed instead of bit. It ruffled his thick white fur and whispered in his long ears. It seemed to play around him as though it knew him and loved him. As though it was a friend. When the little rabbit woke, he felt comforted.
He was also hungry. He emerged into the world and found a soft blanket of new snow sparkling in the sunlight. He hopped slowly from place to place, digging under the snow to get to edible plants and enjoying the sun’s warmth. He nibbled and browsed and felt better. He made a wide circle around the strange burrow he’d tried so desperately to get into, knowing it was there but not going too near it. After a while he came upon his own tracks, plain and clear in the snow. It was like having a friend nearby. Some of what he found to eat was tough and dry and tasteless but occasionally he nibbled on a shoot or branch that surprised him with a fresh green taste.
As the sun went down, he drew near to the strange burrow, whiskers quivering and nose twitching. The delicious smell remained, but he’d found no way of getting down it. He felt tired. He turned away and found his own hole. He curled up and went to sleep with a full belly and the memory of sun on his white fur.
Every day the little rabbit woke up and did what he could do. He searched for food and enjoyed the sun when it shone, and fluffed out his thick coat and sought shelter when the wind blew cold. He thought all the time about the burrow he’d found and every day he checked and sniffed and saw it was still there — and still blocked. He didn’t cry or rage any more. He watched the sun travel across the sky and sometimes he watched the moons rise or set and looked at stars studding the huge night. He kept himself safe from predators, groomed his fur, slept and watched snowflakes fall and drift on the wind. And without his noticing how or when it happened, the world began to change.
Snow was soft instead of grainy. It wasn’t as cold and the air seemed full of murmurings and rustlings he could almost hear, but not quite. He was amazed. He didn’t know what to make of it. Of course, we know. Gradually, slowly, the land of snow and ice woke… and change came at last.”
Mary thought, The land of snow and ice woke. It woke… Wake! The piper called. Molly was ready to leave Janus House. She herself knew it was time to go…where? Molly, she knew, must midwife the spring. Would the piper’s music be enough to wake Winter? Was that her task? To help wake Winter?
“…and so, that white rabbit became a brown rabbit and when at last the burrow he’d found was unblocked he went through and found himself back at home, in the place where he’d started but had forgotten, now a lovely-scented place with green grass, shy flowers and damp earth, and, best of all, other little brown rabbits.”
Mary came out of her thoughts abruptly and joined in the gentle applause. Kunik smiled into her eyes. Molly smiled too, strain gone from her face, though she looked tired.
As though the impromptu story had been the whole reason for the gathering, the party broke up soon afterwards. Eurydice was anxious to go back to Janus House and left first. Mary wanted to sit alone and think. Even Molly didn’t want to stay and play.
That night, Molly, Mary and Eurydice sat by the fire after the evening meal and talked about Kunik’s story.
Molly was flushed and irritable. Mary had recognized both tears and temper close under the surface during the meal and casually proposed hot chocolate before bed. She felt relieved when Molly agreed. Eurydice settled herself on a sheepskin near the hearth, leaning against a wide-lapped chair, her thick hair covered with the head scarf she always wore. Mary sank into her favorite corner of the long, deep couch. Molly left her steaming cup on a table and stayed on her feet, standing with her back to the fire.
“So how do you open the way?” she demanded, looking from Eurydice to Mary. “Just do nothing? What kind of an answer is that?”
“Well,” Mary said carefully, “how does the way forward open when we feel stuck?”
“The rabbit thought tears wouldn’t work,” put in Eurydice, looking into the fire.
“Do you think that’s right? Would tears — grief — have worked?” Mary addressed her question to the air somewhere between Eurydice and Molly. “Could tears melt winter?”
“No,” Molly said emphatically. She stooped and picked up her cup, sipped, and wrapped her hands around its warmth.
“No,” agreed Mary quietly.
Eurydice gave the fire a small, fleeting smile. “How about anger?” she asked conversationally. “Would anger open the way? What about a lot of anger? What about rage? That’s hot enough!”
“That doesn’t seem right,” said Molly slowly. “Rage makes me think of destruction. We’re talking about opening a way, not making a crater!” She sipped again, and snorted with unwilling laughter. “How much rage can a little white rabbit feel?”
Eurydice and Mary laughed, too. The taste of hot chocolate was smooth and rich in Mary’s mouth. “I think we could go out and rage all we wanted at the winter and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference.”
“Not rage, then,” agreed Eurydice. “I think we can’t force a way to open.” She looked at Molly. “I dreamt about this,” she said, and told the girl about the door, the key and the crowd on the other side.
“But what did you do to make it open?” asked Molly, puzzled.
“That’s just it. I didn’t do anything. I…allowed.”
Molly wore an arrested look. “Allowed. But that’s what the selchie stories are about. Real love allows.”
“Yes,” said Mary, filled with peace and certainty, everything becoming clear.
“So, the rabbit…” said Molly hesitatingly, groping towards understanding, “the rabbit allowed…?”
“Yes,” said Mary, looking at Molly with enormous affection. “The rabbit acknowledged his desire and longing and the pain in his heart and he accepted he couldn’t go through the burrow. He allowed things to be the way they were and did what he could do to take care of himself and live his life. He accepted he couldn’t control the outcome of his desire. He could only feel it and go on. That’s what started opening the way for him. Eurydice wanted more than anything for that door to open. She was quite willing to sit there for as long as it took, without having any actual power to make it happen. She wanted it with her whole heart, she gave herself to the wanting, and then she did what she could do and sat, releasing the outcome. In some way that allowed it to open...”
Molly frowned down at her cup, swirling. “I think I see,” she said tentatively.
“What we’re talking about is surrender. Think of seeds,” said Eurydice, smiling up at her. “Think of scattering a handful of seeds. You give them to the ground, the sun, the rain, yes?”
“Yes. You mean I surrender them to chance? I scatter them with love into the world and allow — whatever will happen to happen?”
“That’s it exactly!” said Eurydice.
“Yes, all right,” said Molly impatiently. “But I still don’t know what to do when I’m stuck!”
“I think that’s what Janus House it,” said Mary. “It’s a stuck place. It’s a place where you give your whole heart to being stuck!” she giggled, sounding Molly’s age. “It’s the place between one thing and another, the turning point. We come here and things happen and we meet people and hear stories and… and… use everything we possess right here, right now. Then…”
“The way starts to open,” murmured Eurydice. “Molly, how long have you felt stuck?”
“Oh… not long,” she replied with some surprise. “For a long time, I felt happy here and I didn’t think of leaving at all.”
“Well then,” said Eurydice gently, “the way is already opening and you’re seeing the light on the other side of the door. The turning point is now.”
“I want it to open faster!”
They laughed together. Molly sat cross-legged in front of the fire. Her cup was empty. Mary stretched out her hand and Molly handed it to her. Molly yawned. “I’m sorry if I was grumpy.”
“I had disturbing dreams last night, too,” said Mary. “Sometimes a night like that makes for an uneasy day.”
“Kunik has a gift,” remarked Eurydice. “Did he make up that story as he told it?”
“I think so,” said Molly. “Sometimes today I thought it was just a simple kids’ story. But as he told it and now as we talk about it, it seems like more than that. How did he make up a story that seems like it was especially for each one of us?”
“A gift,” repeated Eurydice.
“And the drumming!” said Mary, remembering with wonder.
“I’m going to name that rabbit Surrender,” said Molly.
They said no more. After a half hour of companionable silence, Eurydice and Molly went to bed and Mary took the cups to the kitchen and sought her own room.
***
Mary pulled aside heavy velvet drapes, letting in dawn light. She had carefully pieced together a pouch made of a piece of sealskin. It fit inside the birch bark pouch Hel had helped her and Molly make. She spread seeds on the table, each kind twisted into cloth or paper and labeled. She stirred the twists with her finger, mind relaxing into memory. Every label brought back a day, an hour, a place where she’d gathered seed. She vividly remembered the feel of soft earth under her knees, the fresh smell of rain, the tender fullness of her skin after being in sun all day, the ache in her back and legs from bending over the seed. She remembered the scent of herbs, the vulnerability of open blossom. She remembered the twins’ father, milk and honey, green and gold, pouring his vitality into seed and harvest, and watching him walk away the last time, empty and sere, exhaustion in every line in his body, making his way back to the tree at life’s center. She sat for a long time, fingering seeds, moving packages from hand to hand, eyes filled with dreams, body remembering the work it was created for.
***
Mary handed the birch bark pouch to Molly. “I made a present for you!” Molly recognized the pouch they’d made earlier and was delighted with the sealskin lining. Carefully, she emptied out the twists of seed, reading tiny labels. Mary had decorated the pouch with little shells and thin holey stones and Molly turned it over in her hands with pleasure, showing Eurydice. She kissed Mary and tied the pouch around her waist with a thong of leather laced through its drawstring top.
“I want to tell you both, I’m leaving Janus House,” said Mary.
Molly looked down, letting her hair tumble down and hide her face.
“I’m leaving Janus House, but I’m not leaving you, so I won’t say good-bye.”
Molly looked up, surprised. “Am I coming with you, then?” she asked.
“Not exactly. We’re not leaving together but we’re both leaving. I can’t explain right now, but you’ll understand later.”
“I think it’s time for me to leave, too, but I still don’t know how…or when…or where to go.”
“I can help with that. Remember the piping we heard in the woods?”
“Oh, yes! How could I forget that? But I’ve never heard it again.”
“I’ve heard it again. You’ll hear it, too. Follow the piping, Molly. Find the piper. When it’s time, plant seeds. You’ll know when.”
“Follow the piping?”
“Yes. Follow that lovely, lovely sound. It’s calling you. Answer it.”
Molly looked into her face. “You’re happy!” she said, half accusing.
Mary laughed, a clear ringing sound that belied her years. “I am!” she agreed. “I’m happy because my way has opened. And so should you be, my dear, for great joy is ahead of you.”
“It’ll be all right?” Molly asked.
“Oh, it’ll be so much better than that!”
Molly looked at Eurydice, who had remained silent. “It’s scary when the door opens,” said Eurydice with understanding. “You don’t need to go anywhere or do anything until you’re ready. You can stay here as long as you want to.”
“No,” said Molly slowly. “I want to go on. Kunik’s leaving, too. I’m just scared. But I want to go…” she gestured vaguely with her hand towards the window.
“Whatever comes, Molly, dance within it, and surrender. And now, I’m starving,” said Mary, and they laughed and went to dinner.
***
Mary slipped quietly out of Janus House under a pale dawn sky. She felt ridiculously happy, and young, and free. She carried nothing with her. Outside the door she raised her face to where a few bright stars still glimmered coldly. She drew in a deep breath of chill air and felt exhilarated. She looked down at the path leading from the house. “Show me the way,” she murmured to it, and, smiling, began to walk.
She wound between rocky outcroppings and trees, up and down hills and valleys. On and on she walked through the dreaming morning. While she climbed a gentle rise the young sun’s first rays stained the snow with color, allowing her to see some way ahead. Trees stood in a shallow valley and the hill’s descending slope was blind with snow except for a single eyelash tree curving with graceful branches. Light bathed the top of the hill, but the rest was a study in ink and shadow. As she drew closer, Mary heard the soft morning talk of birds. A beardlike swathe of frozen grass rose above the snow and they were busy among the seed heads.
She left the path and struck across the slope, making for the tree. Sunlight no longer struck her but morning glowed like a pearl around her. She came to a fold of snowy blanket and saw the delicate tracery of bird tracks like fine stitching on a hem.
She took off her hat, her gloves. She unwrapped her scarf. She shrugged off her coat and toed off her boots, pulled her sweater over her head. Bit by bit, her clothes fell away until she stood, pink and white, blood coursing under her skin, hair loose and waving over her shoulders, more frost than honey. She ran her hands down the familiar landscape of her body, standing straight backed and strong, exultant.
She knelt and lifted the edge of the snow blanket. Winter lay on his side, bottom leg extended and the top bent at the knee. She fitted herself against his back, her knees behind his, her breasts pressed against him. His flesh felt cool and fresh, like a creek in summer. He smelled damp. He breathed slowly in the remoteness of his long sleep. She quieted herself, feeling warmth gradually build up between them. She laid a light hand on the curve of his hip, her cheek nestling against his shoulder blade. She slowed her breathing to match his and began to feel his pulse, slow and deep and heavy. Together, they breathed. She let her mind drift, her body relax. She thought of rich earth, cold and heavy but holding within it countless waiting seeds. She heard in memory the sound of the piper calling the thaw to begin. She thought of pale green flame strengthening into an emerald blaze, blossoming with color. In her mind’s eye, she saw a young woman with strong thighs and proud breasts sowing seed. She heard the sound of piping, saw the young woman look up, and Lugh was there. Lugh, with his brown hair and curved horns and green eyes. Lugh, with his pipes and musky hooves. Lugh, with the crimson swirl of his cloak around his supple shoulders. Lugh, with his own seed heavy in its soft hairy bag.
Now the green fire entered her. It pulsed through her, spreading sweet and warm. She opened herself to it, unfolded like a flower blooming, petal by petal, nectar and pollen, color and scent and texture and life, the triumphant cycle… She realized the sound of piping was no longer in her mind, but in her ears.
Winter stirred. His breathing and pulse quickened. The skin under her hand on his hip became aware. She turned her head and licked him with a long slow stroke between his shoulder blades. She felt him smile under his white beard.
“Wake,” she said.
MOLLY
Molly was not as desolate as she expected to be. The morning she woke up and knew Mary had left, she went out to walk, the seed pouch tied around her waist under her clothing, a small, pleasant weight against her hip. The path took her into the forest where she used to go to be with the owls. As she walked, she watched a pair of magpies, fat and glossy in black and blue and white feathers. They ignored her, intent on collecting sticks and twigs. With a lift of her heart, she realized they were a nesting pair. All day she held the memory of them to her like a sign of hope.
She opened her wardrobe and began to go through her possessions. Most of her clothes were too small. In some consternation, she sought Hel for advice and was given an armful of new garments, although none seemed warm.
“There are lots of coats and outdoor clothes downstairs,” said Hel. “Boots, too. Use whatever you like while you’re here. These,” she indicated the neatly folded pile, “are for you to take with you and keep when you’re ready to leave.”
Molly thanked her and left her outgrown clothes in the wardrobe. Hel gave her a bag to use and she packed the lighter clothing into it carefully. There was nothing else. Everything she’d wanted or needed had been at Janus House. The seed pouch she kept tied around her waist, not liking to be without it.
Her appetite increased. Noticing this, Hel provided her with a supply of scones and fruit in her room. Molly slept deeply and for long stretches, no longer troubled by dreams. During the days, she was filled with energy and spent most of her time outside, roaming happily. She returned to the inlet and found slabs of ice melting, drop by drop, scattering pebbles and bits of sea wrack that had been frozen in them as they diminished. Kunik had said goodbye before Mary left, and she missed him.
Molly didn’t hear the piper but she heard the sound of water everywhere she went. Winter began to thaw. Sometimes there was a mist, smelling of sea and damp earth. Snow gradually melted and her boots were muddy. Birds were much more in evidence, vocal and busy. The sun grew stronger and climbed higher.
One day, as they walked through singing trees watching nest building, Eurydice asked, “Is Molly a nickname for Mary?”
“Yes. I’ve never been called Mary, though. It would’ve been confusing while Mary was here. She told me Mother’s name was really Mary too!”
“What a strange coincidence,” said Eurydice. “Do you like the name Mary? Would you mind if people called you that?”
“I like it. I don’t think I’d mind.” She looked curiously into Eurydice’s brown eyes, wondering what the point was. They were the same height now.
Eurydice smiled at her. “I just wondered,” she said simply.
***
It was a morning of blustery wind that stirred the tops of the waves into foam and licked the rotten yellow sea ice into slush. It was a morning of black and white and blue flash of magpies, busy in the forest. It was a morning of mud covered with a thin skin of ice, of frost that was really cold dew and dew born as wind kissed frost with careless gusts. It was a morning of thin piping that woke trees from their winter sleep, calling sap to rise, swell and throb, warming cold trunks and stretching branches and twigs. It was a wild, undisciplined, sloppy morning, moody and disorganized, neither winter nor spring but some unfocused point in between. It woke Mary roughly. Her feet were on the floor before she heard the piping. She drew aside the heavy curtains with a rattle of rings. She opened the window and air flowed in, sharp toothed and cold, beaded with mud, smelling of movement and change, bringing the sound of the pipes. Chill air went right through her cotton nightdress and stole warmth from her belly and legs. Her nipples hardened. The piping was like a thread of green fire drawing itself through her veins. She dressed, carefully tying her seed pouch around her waist. Baskets on the table were filled with fruit and scones and she put them in her bag.
She left the room without looking back, wardrobe door ajar, bed unmade, fire out and window wide.
(This post was published with this essay.)