The Hanged Man: Part 6: Ostara
Post #44: In which the initiation begins ...
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Rumpelstiltskin began to speak.
“She arrived in a world of people who didn’t recognize her. She arrived in a world that knew no word for her. She was named, but not by the world she was born into. She was of the world, her bones of the world’s clay. Water, root and leaf knew her and welcomed her. Insect, bird, reptile and furred creature took no more notice of her than of a crystal of frost, a dewdrop, a fallen petal.
But to the world of men, she was like the coming of a cataclysm.
She was named ‘gift of all,’ ‘all giving,’ ‘all gifted,’ ‘all endowed.’ She was named Pandora.
Her dowry was an unremarkable lidded clay vessel.
So much for the bones. Now what of the flesh?”
Rumpelstiltskin paused, looking around at the circle of faces.
“What is a woman?
A woman is a creature of malice and cunning. She has honey on her tongue and blackness in her heart. She’s a trickster, a twister, a snake. She’s a sharp knife buried in a man’s gut as she calls from his body the helpless moment of pleasure. She’s a seductress, a succubus who feeds on male essence. She’s a whore, a hag, a black cunt, a bitch. Her name is a lie, a cunning deceit, a twisted irony from the heart of Evil.
Plague and pestilence, pain, toil, sorrow and mischief were the gifts nesting in Pandora’s jar. Her jar was a prison, her treacherous hand the key. The only help, the only palliative to dark destruction that overcame mankind because of cursed Pandora remained fast in that prison, for she closed the lid too soon and locked away Hope, the last thing to emerge from the jar. Hope, that might provide a ray of light, a way forward, a glimpse of paradise lost. Hope, that fluttered with fragile wings around and around its dark cage and then lay crumpled, weightless and still in the bottom of the resealed jar.
Such was the first woman, Pandora, mother of all women, chalice of all evil in the world.”
After a pause, Rumpelstiltskin continued.
“A woman is a chthonic force, the spirit of Earth herself. She’s Gaia in human form. Within her move tides of fertility, creativity, cycles and seasons. She’s the cauldron of life and inexorable wisdom of death. She’s neither merciful nor cruel. She is.
Pandora, first woman, carried a jar. The jar contained everything needed to transform Earth into a world of infinite beauty, self-organizing and wise. In the jar were opportunity and choice. The jar contained life, neither good nor bad, but simply itself. When it was time, wind blew the jar over. Rain melted the lid’s seal. Freeze and thaw joined hands with snow and sun and the jar broke into fragments, like a hatchling’s egg. One thing remained among the shattered shards of Pandora’s jar. Hope lingered, grieving for the loss of how it had been, hoping for things to get better.
Such was Pandora, All Mother.”
“A woman is a question,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “A woman is one who sees with her nipples and speaks with her cunt and loves what’s real. A woman holds, heals, supports, renews life and cradles death. She strokes, stretches, urges on, licks, sucks, feeds and nurtures growth. A woman is source, fountainhead, cool dark well.
Pandora, she of all gifts, carried all blessings. Her jar served as an inexhaustible pantry. Freely, she gave her abundance, but a certain man wanted more. He wanted … more. Why should he not be the one to give … or withhold? Why did this creature called Pandora possess power and he didn’t?
He lifted the jar’s lid, meaning to capture all blessings and hold them fast until he decided how best to use them. Foolish man! The blessings slipped away and were forever lost. At the last moment, he clapped the lid back on the jar, keeping Hope safe. Hope. And the man said, ‘Didn’t I save the best thing?’ and ‘Wasn’t the greatest gift preserved by my quick thinking?’ in an effort to distract others from his act. And all agreed. Pandora was to blame. Pandora and her jar. Pandora and her tempting gifts. Naturally, men wanted the power to dispense such gifts.
No one discerned the two faces of Hope.
Such was Pandora, first woman.”
Again, Rumpelstiltskin paused.
“A woman is a tool, a chattel, an animal, a subnormal child. She must be kept ignorant and powerless. A woman is a pussy, a tit, a hole in which to find pleasure. A woman is a scapegoat and a satisfying splitting of skin under knuckles. A woman can be taught to cringe, to flinch, to obey. A woman can be adornment, servant and slave. A woman can be manipulated. A woman is weak. A woman is a piece of property. A woman is sly and curious and disrespectful. A woman is a stupid creature.
Pandora was ordered to carry the jar and keep it safe but to never look inside it. She arrived in the world of men, a place of ease and leisure and comfort, a place of full bellies, sleep, indolence, pleasure of all kinds, a place of paradise, in fact, and out of female weakness and curiosity she opened the jar and released the contents into the world. When she realized what she’d done, she slammed the lid back on the jar. The only thing left in it was Hope. Hope, the only anodyne to a world of misery created by Pandora’s disobedience.
Such was the nature of the first woman and all women who come from her bitter seed.”
“Bravo, maggot,” said Baba Yaga from behind Vasilisa, making her jump. “You saved the best for last. Women are tit and ass, empty hole and empty head. Useless, weak, puling creatures, women! Know nothing and want to know less than that!” She preened, sticking out her chest, bending a knee and standing hipshot in dreadful parody of female invitation. “I, on the other hand, I’m Storm Raiser! Ha! Lady of Beasts, they call me! Primal Mother! Hag! Crone! There’s power! Who was Pandora? Meddlesome wench! Poking her long nose where it wasn’t wanted! She destroyed Paradise accidentally. I’d do it on purpose!” She spat contemptuously on the grass inside the circle. Surrender bolted, making for the cover of trees in a flash of white tail.
“Ha!” said Baba Yaga, watching it go. “Rabbit stew! Not so good as child flesh, but still…” She walked away, toward her chicken-legged hovel.
The group behind her relaxed, returning their attention to Rumpelstiltskin.
“How do you know so much about Pandora?” Jenny asked the Dwarve.
“Because Pandora and a Dwarve named Jasper began it,” he said. His rugged face broke into a smile. “They became the first to join hands in the long line of Dwarves and young women bound together by respect and love. Because of them, the tribes of women and Dwarves are each strengthened.”
“What did you mean about the ‘two faces of Hope’?” Vasilisa asked Rumpelstiltskin. Hope is a good thing, isn’t it? What’s the other face?”
Unexpectedly, Artemis answered. “Hope is essential, yes, but it’s not enough.”
“What else is there?” asked Artyom.
Nephthys jumped to her feet. “Hope is the last light to be extinguished, the honey in the mouth, the nice thing that forgives and forgives again its enemies!” Her childish voice recited the words. She slid a gold bracelet off her wrist and threw it into the air. As it fell, a silver shaft pierced its center and silver and gold dissolved into thick liquid and white fragments falling through the air. Nephthys reached out and caught the shattered remains, closing her fist around them. Her hand gleamed with viscous strings and drops.
Artemis was on her feet too, poised with her bow, bared arms strong and steady, having shot an arrow through the falling gold bracelet.
“Hope is the River Von, the slobber dripping from Fenrir’s jaws.” said Artemis. “Hope is the Challenger, the Warrior, insipid alone and indomitable combined. Hope is the tamed, the civilized, the captured, and the final abdication.”
Nephthys flung the contents of her hand into the center of the circle. A small pile of slippery wet teeth with sharp points fell in the grass.
“Fenrir was a monstrous wolf out of legend,” said Radulf unexpectedly. “Foam from his jaws formed the River Von, river of hope or expectation.” He picked up one of the teeth with something like reverence and examined it, eyes hooded and head bent.
“You’re saying hope must be combined with intention,” said Rose Red to Artemis. “You told me your bow means focused intention.”
Artemis put aside her bow and resumed her seat. “Well done, Daughter,” she said. “Hope is an invitation, an open doorway to change, but it’s weak and ineffective without intention and action. That paradox underpins Pandora’s story in all its versions. How useful is Hope? Is it different from plague, pestilence, and the rest? Is it blessing or is it abdication? Many people live wretched lives with hope in their mouths, but take no action to fulfill it.”
“Don’t give up your hope,” said Artemis to the circle. “But understand hope without action, hope without intention, is powerless.”
A shrieking high-pitched cackle of laughter, erupted into the sun-lit clearing. “Oh, but teacher, hope is such a pretty word,” jeered Baba Yaga, “so nectarous and winsome!” She squatted some distance away on an overturned barrel with her knees spread wide apart under her ragged skirt, displaying much more of herself than Vasilisa wanted to see or even think about. She held a half-gnawed bone in her hand.
Radulf, ignoring the interruption, left his examination of the tooth and looked across the circle at Rumpelstiltskin.
“Pandora is a woman’s story. Why did you tell it to us?” he indicated Artyom, Kunik and himself.
“Women are mothers to men,” Rumpelstiltskin replied. “Pandora is the hidden thing. Her business is secrets, things lost, things misleading. She’s shape hidden within shape. She’s greatest evil or greatest blessing, and her stories are hard stories of loss and truth. I told you her story because you’re here to be initiated into your own power, and woman or man, your power is incomplete without that which is hidden from you.”
Baba Yaga broke in again. She pointed at the skull next to Artyom with the bone. “I see you brought back my property, boy!” Artyom, avoiding all eyes and looking expressionless, nodded curtly. Baba Yaga turned her malicious gaze onto Vasalisa. “This one stole it one dark night, didn’t you, my little fledgling?”
“Yes, Grandmother,” said Vasalisa submissively, although Baba Yaga had in fact given the fiery skull to Vasalisa. It wasn’t fiery now, just a worn-looking human skull, rather sad in its fragility and age.
“Weeellll,” said Baba Yaga, drawing out the sound as her eyes traveled around the circle. The look on her face was both pleased and not pleased. “It sees secrets, never fear, but it won’t speak. Silent as the grave! Silent as the crypt! But I, on the other hand… “Her voice rose and she snapped her fingers with a sound like a bone breaking.
“Come and join us, Old Mother,” said Dar suddenly in a coaxing voice. The young women looked astonished, the men horrified. Artemis’s lips twitched and Rumpelstiltskin hid a smile in his beard. Dar moved over, practically into Artemis’s lap, and smiled seductively at Baba Yaga, patting the ground next to him in invitation. “I’ll let you play with my flute if you come,” he said, grinning at her like a boy. “I’ll let you look at my marbles.”
“It’ll be your last look, puppy! Soon they’ll be my marbles!” She stood for a moment, glaring, and then turned and clumped away, radiating contempt.
Dar grinned at Artemis, who pushed him away. “You can’t resist, can you?”
“Serve you right if she’d come and sat in your lap, you young devil,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “What’s this about marbles?”
“Next week is the spring marble championship,” said Dar. “She plays. So do I.”
“She does not!” said Rumpelstiltskin.
“She does,” Artemis assured him.
“Well, anyway, we got rid of her for the moment,” said Dar.
“She’ll be back,” said Artemis.
“Everything lost is found again,” said Nephthys suddenly.
“Yes,” said Rumpelstiltskin, returning his attention to the discussion at hand. “Thank you, Nephthys. We were talking about Pandora and the hidden thing.”
“What about private matters, information nobody needs to know?” asked Artyom. “Shouldn’t we have the power to reveal or conceal our own truths?”
“Certainly,” replied Rumpelstiltskin. “But in exercising that power we limit ourselves. We stay small to conceal a secret.”
Artyom shook his head slightly, biting a fingernail.
“But you told different versions of the Pandora story,” Jenny said to Rumpelstiltskin. “What is the truth? What does it mean, exactly?”
Shape within shape,” said Kunik promptly.
Nephthys said, “Truth is bone.”
“Seed is truth,” said Mary.
“Love and intuition?” asked Vasilisa.
“Truth is a fearful thing,” said Rose Red in a low voice, “shattered and sharp.”
“It’s elusive,” said Radulf with unexpected roughness. “It hides just out of sight, never showing itself, but letting you know you’ve failed to understand.”
“All wrong, poppets,” sneered Baba Yaga, who had returned unnoticed, making several people jump. “All wrong, my little pustules!” She flapped her skirt, unfolding a thick, eye watering smell of greasy fish, old blood and urine. She grasped her ragged tunic with both hands and pulled it apart, revealing a sagging, wrinkled potbelly the color of a dead fish. She caressed herself with her iron-tipped hands, cradling her own flesh in a grotesque mockery of a pregnant woman. She leered from one face to another, moving her hands slowly up to cup flaccid, drooping, sac-like breasts and then dropping them again to her obscene round abdomen.
“Truth is Death!”
“If truth is death, then you know very well truth is birth, too,” said Dar crossly. “If you claim the one, you must include the other.”
“Hhhhmmmph!” said Baba Yaga. “Maybe so, but this belly holds death and rot!” She opened her mouth wide, then wider, impossibly wide, so they could see grey sharpened teeth curving upwards into tusks. She blew out a breath, a fetid charnel house wind that clogged in their throats and made their eyes water. On and on it went, blowing over them, the smell coating their skin and hair and clothing.
Jenny retched helplessly. Rose Red swallowed thick saliva and willed herself not to gag.
Baba Yaga inhaled dramatically. “I’ll show you truth, my pretty little toads.” She cackled. “May it burn your eyes out! May it haunt you forever! I’ll show you! I’ll pry your innocent eyes open until they stretch and tear and bleed and pop out and roll on the ground in agony! Oh, yes!” She rubbed her hands together, chortling and rocking where she sat. “We’ll open jars and boxes and baskets and look behind screens aplenty, my little festering froggies! Old Baba will show you the Truth, never fear!”
She bounced to her feet. “But not now! Not yet! Now there’s work to be done!” Her voice rose into an unearthly shriek that made Vasilisa wince. Baba Yaga skipped forward, bent and picked up the skull Artyom had brought to the circle of story. She held it high over her head and the skull ignited into a fiery blaze that spilled out every orifice and crack in the bone. Vasilisa realized the sun would soon set.
“This needs a throne, a pedestal, a place from which to watch you miserable moppets! Plant a post for it, lackbrains! Build me a fence, nestlings! Find your bones and build me a scaffold! Raise gallows, a rack, a fortress, a prison! Build me a gate, a threshold, a bridge to Hell! Build me an arena in which to die!” she went off into mad laughter, the skull glaring in her upraised hand.
The group looked at her in fearful fascination and then Nephthys jumped to her feet and skipped past Baba Yaga to where her dragging cloth lay. Mary, remembering her seeds lying there with the bones, followed her, and then the others. They stood uncertainly around the jumble of bones and neatly laid out rows of seeds. Nephthys carefully set the seeds aside and spread out the bones. Some were stained and yellowed with cracks and chips, and others were white and hard looking. On the ground lay a careless pile of shovels, picks and other tools.
“We’re to build a fence,” said Vasilisa with certainty.
The chicken legs, which had stood quietly for most of the day, now moved. Each leg stretched slowly and voluptuously, clawed feet spreading wide, toes wiggling. Baba Yaga’s house swayed and dipped slightly above them. One foot extended, the toes clamped together and dragged along the ground while the other foot hopped. The legs made a slow oval, scratching a deep line in the ground. When the oval was complete, the legs carried the house into its center and stood still again. The fire pit lay in one rounded end, blooming suddenly with flames.
“Find your bones!” said Nephthys gaily. They received no further instruction.
Vasilisa heard a sound of tapping. Baba Yaga squatted by the fire pit, a slender bone in each hand. On the ground between her bony knees sat the fiery skull, once again cold and dull. She tapped on the skull’s dome, maintaining an even, steady beat. The tap, tap of the sticks strengthened and deepened, became reverberant, as though the skull was a large hollow thing covered with skin. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.
Jenny sat next to her, and Vasilisa was glad to be near a friend. The drumbeat rolled against her, insistent and breathless. She reached in the pocket of her apron with her left hand and felt the doll. With the other hand, she explored the pile of bones, brushing lightly through them. The sky darkened and the fire burned high, sparks rising above it. Firelight threw strange shadows over the heaps of bones.
The others were intent upon the task, sifting and sorting. Artyom crouched across from her, face shadowed, running his hands delicately over one bone, then another. His hands drew her gaze, the sureness and tenderness of his touch. The drumbeat itched in her body, in her blood. She shuddered, aroused, and then the doll in her pocket stirred against her hand and she remembered what she was doing and turned back to the task.
(This post was published with this essay.)