The Hanged Man: Part 5: Imbolc
Post #34: In which seeds are sown and a young woman meets a crone ...
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Elizabeth, Demeter and Mary walked together the rest of the day. As evening neared, they came to a crossroad. Demeter appeared to know the place. A few yards off from the meeting of roads sat a rough wooden bench, wide and long enough to lie down on. Here they sat and ate again.
“Why do you ask me for my blessing?” Mary asked, troubled, as they finished eating. “How do you know me?”
“Mary, you’re the Seed Bearer,” said Demeter.
For a fleeting second Mary glimpsed meaning and felt recognition, sensed something wheeling slowly around her. She glanced up at the sky, half hopeful, half apprehensive, but saw only sunset painting a series of thin, narrow clouds.
“The Seed Bearer,” she repeated.
“You bear the seed. You help waken winter into the season of growth.”
“I thought you and Persephone did that!”
Demeter laughed at her indignation. “We do! And Anemone and so many more! We do it together. Everyone is needed. We can’t do it without you and you can’t do it without us. We all serve the cycle. Your role is Seed Bearer. You collect, sow and reap. You’re a vessel of life. You’re even now standing on the edge of undreamt passion and wild power.” For a moment Mary saw a kind of fearful envy in Demeter’s eyes. “Many will seek your blessing and many will bless you in return.”
Demeter turned away, tidying up the remains of their meal and packing it neatly in her bundle. Elizabeth kept silent but met Mary’s glance with a smile and touched her hand reassuringly.
“Are the seeds safe?” Demeter inquired. “It’ll be dark soon.” Mary nodded, feeling for the pouches and bags tied around her waist. She’d hung the red silk bag around her neck so it nestled between her breasts.
“Will you hear another story, then, before sleep?” asked Demeter. “This is a good place to rest for the night.” She raised her head, listening. “Do you hear them?” she asked.
Mary and Elizabeth stilled and listened. A rising chorus of frogs swelled in the evening air. Mary smiled.
“Is there a pond?” she asked, low voiced.
“Over there,” said Demeter, waving her hand.
They settled together on the bench.
“Long ago, a maiden gave her heart to a wayfaring man. She met him at the crossroad on a market day. Oh, he was a long, lean, weathered devil, with a gleam in his eye and a smile on his lips! Many a song could he sing, many a tale could he tell, and he knew the lanes and towns for miles around. Every spring he appeared with his cart.
One spring, the maiden gave herself to the peddler and knew joy with him. They made plans for the future, and the peddler promised to take her away with him the following year.
The maiden spent the winter dreaming and waiting. He was her first thought in the morning and her last before sleep. As birds began to mate and build nests and the land stirred with spring, she left her village and went every day to the crossroads. Day followed day, and he didn’t come. One day, as the maiden sat weeping, an old woman with a wolf dog at her heel walked by and heard the maiden’s story.
‘And would you travel, and follow his footsteps, and find him again?’ she asked the maiden.
‘Oh, yes!’ said she, ‘but how can I, a young woman alone, hope to travel in safety until we’re reunited? I’ve no choice but to wait and hope he returns to me.’
‘Daughter, on this night don’t return home, but stay and keep watch, and see what happens,’ the old woman said, and walked on.
The maiden waited, hoping in vain for the sound of her lover’s approach. All afternoon she waited, and the sun went down. The spring night passed with frog song and owl talk. In the small hours, she grew so weary she lay down to rest as best she might.
The sun rose and the maiden slept. Around her body, green shoots began to grow. Pale flowers threaded through the dark strands of her hair. By noon, the maiden’s body had vanished into a mass of tiny white flowers and broad green leaves.
And so, the plantain was born, always underfoot and in danger, but made immortal. She crept along the world’s roads, setting out from this crossroad, searching for her lover. Wise women greet her with joy, for she’s a sacred, healing herb. She haunts fields and waysides everywhere, in many forms, keeping vigil for her lover, who never appears.”
Demeter knelt next to a greening mound of broad leaves as she finished, running her hands gently through them. Elizabeth and Mary came to kneel on either side of her.
“Yes,” said Elizabeth in wonder. “I know the plantain, of course. The plant I know has narrower leaves, though. It is indeed a powerful healing herb, easy to grow and impossible to get rid of!”
Mary caressed the cool leaves. “It was born right here? This is the first place it grew?”
“Yes,” said Demeter, half sad and half smiling. “This is where it started and ended for that poor girl. Now she can wander and search at will, stretching out in every direction, immortal and beloved by many, if not by him, the wretch! Poor thing!” She sighed. “I wanted you to see this place and hear her story,” she said to Mary. “Spring is rousing her for another season of searching. Now you’ll know her when you see her. Will you bless her, my dear? She’s a great healer. We can sleep here tonight and she’ll guard and keep us until morning.”
They unrolled their blankets and lay down together, and the frogs sang them to sleep.
***
When Mary woke in the morning, she found herself alone. She lay quiet, watching the day dawn. She reached her hand out of her cocoon of blankets and let it lie among the chilly, dew-wet plantain leaves. The frogs had gone to bed but birds warmed the cool morning with their song.
After a bit, she rose and folded her blankets. Demeter and Elizabeth had left her the last of the food. She sat on the bench and ate and then went and knelt in the clump of plantain. “Safe journey, my dear,” she said, resting her hands among the leaves. “Go well and find happiness.”
As she knelt there the sound of piping threaded through the morning the way the pale flowers threaded through plantain leaves. Mary rose and followed it.
RAPUNZEL
Rapunzel tucked Alexander’s eyes away. Though lidless, at times the eyes were clearly visible and alert. At other times, there was no sign of a blue eye in the white marble, and she thought of the eyes as closed. She made a game out of navigating according to whether the eyes were open or closed. If closed, she chose another direction. If open, she stayed on course. She had no fixed destination and wanted only to keep moving freely through the world.
Alexander was safe, settled in a small lake town. Family money provided him with a luxurious house, servants and a stable. He’d recovered his health but would never recover his looks or his sight. She felt thankful he couldn’t see the damage himself. It would hurt his vanity terribly. As his strength returned and visitors and family came and went, she grew more and more restless. The day he mounted a horse again in the company of a friend, she knew she was free.
It was winter, but that didn’t dismay her. She’d been locked away from the world’s seasons for so long, even winter was a welcome companion if she could be unconstrained. She walked through short days and sleeping landscape, greeting wind by name and playing in the snow like a child. The blue eyes showed her the way. She wanted nothing else.
Now early spring stirred, fierce and winter cloaked. One day caressed, the next day bit. Rapunzel gloried in it all. She wondered vaguely if the eyes truly led her, or merely opened and closed at random, but it didn’t matter. The game was good and she felt content.
For several days, the temperature had been low, and a sour wind scoured patient trees, sculpted snow into hard edges and sanded Rapunzel’s cheeks. She’d woken to clear, glassy light from a winter white sky. The wind was quiet.
She thought of food and fire, and paused to check the eyes, hoping they’d steer her to shelter before night. She walked on a road, but crusted drifts weren’t quite strong enough to hold her weight, so every step broke through sharp edges into cold, grainy snow beneath.
“Ha! You lose, you withered windbag, you lose! Now I’ll take my own back! Now my pretties come home to me!” The voice was shrill, gloating and cracked.
Curious, Rapunzel stepped off the road, slogging through thin trees toward the voice. Ahead she saw two yellow scaly legs, fifteen feet tall, like young trees. Yards and yards of gay crimson swathed each leg, like the longest scarves in the world. The legs ended in naked three-toed feet. They carried a small house. She approached it from the back.
She knew what this was. Her mother had spoken of Baba Yaga. Rapunzel was determined to have a look at the old hag from some place of concealment.
Feeling if she didn’t make a noise the legs wouldn’t discover her, she began to pick each step carefully, avoiding branches that might snap or crusts of snow that might crunch. Beyond the motionless feet she found a wide, treeless, flat expanse. Two figures bent over something on the ground. Her better judgement told her firmly to stay out of sight or, better yet, go on her way, but her feet took her straight toward the two figures.
She reached the edge of a frozen pond. Cleared ice lay in a smooth opaque sheet. Nervously, she kept her eye on the legs and the house. The front door looked like a mouth and two windows above and to either side of it like eyes. She felt sure it watched her, but shrugged the feeling away.
Under her feet, ice felt as solid as stone.
Being afraid stiffened her back and raised her chin, but her curiosity was irresistible. What could they be looking at?
It was a heap of shining ice crystals. Rapunzel blinked. No, not ice crystals, something like fallen stars. She blinked again. Sparks? Tiny blossoms? A mound of insects with jeweled wings? Gemstones? Embers? All of these. None of them, but something more beautiful.
Then she saw an open eye looking up at her.
She gasped and her hand went to the pocket where she carried Alexander’s eyes.
Marbles!
“Would you like to play, my little tanglenit?” inquired Baba Yaga sweetly.
It could be no one else. Rapunzel saw at a glance the white whiskers, grotesque curve of chin and nose, teeth like tusks. The witch’s eyes were cold as iron.
The man stood up, sighing as though in irritation. He wore a soft brimmed hat shading his eyes, and white winter light showed an empty eye socket. He turned his back on them and looked across the pond toward the other side. Rapunzel heard him take a deep breath and when he exhaled a breeze with a frosty tooth swirled across the ice, sweeping away hard grains of snow with a whishing sound.
“Oh, keep your hair on,” Baba Yaga snapped at his back. She grinned, showing iron tusks. “Not like this glabrous girl! What’s your hurry, old man? You’ve nothing better to do!”
Rapunzel, not trusting herself to speak (how did one speak to such a hag?) held Alexander’s eyes out wordlessly in her palm.
Baba Yaga delicately extended one iron-tipped dirty finger. Rapunzel bore the touch, shuddering inwardly. The nail tapped against one eye, then the other, making them roll and look in different directions. Looking thoughtful, she dragged the nail across Rapunzel’s palm, digging a narrow bloody furrow.
Rapunzel remained stoic, refusing to drop her gaze from the Baba’s.
“You’ll play!” said the old crone, and thrust the nail into her mouth, sucking loudly and luxuriously, like a baby at the breast. Her words were playful but her look was dangerous.
Rapunzel didn’t want to play. She’d played marbles as a child, but never with any skill. She’d sooner play a game with a bear or a snake than the Mother of Witches. She opened her mouth to say no, but found she couldn’t form the words.
“Odin, my dearie, shall we let the hairlet play? Shall we be nice to the pussy?” jeered Baba Yaga.
He shrugged his shoulders without turning around, as though to deny any responsibility in the matter.
Rapunzel, quite against her will, found herself kneeling on the ice playing marbles with Odin and Baba Yaga, pitching Alexander’s blue eyes against the shining heaps of treasure each of the other players possessed. Her hand was poised to shoot when Baba Yaga leapt to her feet, called “Elephant stomps!” and brought one foot up and down on the clustered marbles, driving them into the ice so not a single round side protruded above the surface.
Before Rapunzel could stop her shot, one of Alexander’s open blue eyes skidded across the surface of marble-studded ice, sliding to rest near Odin’s foot.
Baba Yaga’s hand swooped down and seized the marble.
“You lose, I win. I win, you lose,” she crooned. She held the marble up to eye level. “Bonny boy! Pretty boy! Come and live with old Baba! I’ll show you a thing or two! I’ll give you split ends and cherry breasts! I’ll give you something better than a witch’s brat!”
“You cheated,” said Rapunzel heatedly. “I don’t want to play with you!”
“Manners, moppet!” screeched Baba Yaga. “You forget who you’re talking to! Elders and betters, my dear! Elders and betters!” Her eyes mocked.
Rapunzel clenched her jaw. “You forced me to play! That’s mine. I want it back.”
“I won it, fair and square. Fair and round, hee, hee, hee! I have a fancy for it. I want it, and I can take it.”
Rapunzel stood up slowly. Her knees felt numb but her temper simmered. She looked down at the marbles embedded in the thick ice like so many jewels and focused her power on heat, on sparks budding and blossoming into embers, violet and green and red and orange, glowing and pulsing in a bed of ice. Thin tendrils of steam rose up from the ice-encased marbles. They shifted and sank through melting ice, leaving perfect round tunnels and dropping into the water several inches beneath.
Baba Yaga shrieked and cursed. Odin, who’d been watching, turned his back again, hiding a smile in his beard. Baba Yaga danced in fury. Rapunzel, already regretting her temper but refusing to be cowed, glared into Baba Yaga’s red eyes, turned on her heel and walked away.
She would not run. There was no need to. Three steps to shore. Two steps. She left the ice. She wouldn’t turn around. She wouldn’t look afraid. She stiffened her spine and walked, firmly and with assurance. She hoped.
She went past the immobile chicken legs without looking up at the house, through the grove of trees and back onto the road, her fingers tight around the remaining blue-eyed marble.
She strode through the snow, furious. The crust held her weight until just before she took the next step and then broke, leaving her wallowing. Powdery snow sifted between the fastenings of her boots and melted until her socks felt like they’d been soaked in ice water.
She knew enough about Baba Yaga to be unsurprised by the hag’s jeering and treachery. What irked her most was the loss of her will. It had filled her with fury to find herself kneeling on the ice playing marbles, of all the stupid games in the world, when she hadn’t the least intention of doing so. She believed herself to be powerful, independent and skilled, but she’d not been able to say no. The eyes belonged to her, bought with hard experience. They were part of who she was. Yet she’d allowed Baba Yaga to steal one.
She began to see farms and houses, windswept and hunched against the cold. Other tracks defined the road, and walking became easier. Soon she was in a town and thankful to see an inn. She needed a good meal and a warm bed tonight.
The innkeeper greeted her pleasantly, but his eyes skidded off her face and he didn’t look at her again. Cold and wet already, his attitude further piqued her. She knew she looked bedraggled but she was used to men responding more favorably to her youth and unconventional cap of short hair.
Key in hand, she went up the stairs and found her room. Thankfully, she shut the door hard behind her, shedding pack, scarf, cloak and gloves carelessly onto the floor. A fire was laid ready and she lit it and began to work on the wet lacings of her boots.
The room warmed. She hung her wet clothes on a couple of chairs in front of the grate, rubbed her feet and put on dry socks. Her hair felt matted and snarled. She tried to run her fingers through it, but it was too tangled. It was getting too long again. She rooted for a comb and went to stand in front of a mirror propped against the wall on the top of a chest of drawers.
In the mirror, looking back at her, was the ugliest woman she’d ever seen.
Rapunzel flinched back and turned aside, as though to escape a blow. She looked wildly around the room. The fire burned cheerfully. Her own clothes dried on chairs. Her pack lay on the bed, making a deep dent in what looked like a feather comforter. She recognized the comb in her hand, but the hand was rough, knuckles lumpy, nails ridged and discolored. She dropped the comb on the floor and spread out both hands, turning them front to back. The skin over the backs was puckered and scarred, knotted with blue veins. A deep fissure grooved her thumb, looking sore and dry.
Not just looking sore. It was sore.
She went back to the mirror, still disbelieving but beginning to understand.
Baba Yaga.
(This post was published with this essay.)