The Tower: Part 2: Mabon
Post #8: In which the Red Dancer undertakes a mission ...
(If you are a new subscriber, you might want to start at the beginning of the Webbd Wheel Series with The Hanged Man. If you would like to start at the beginning of The Tower, go here. If you prefer to read Parts 1 and 2 in their entirety, go here. To read the next serial post, go here.)
GINGER
My Dear:
Thank you for writing during such a busy season. Living life on and near the sea, it’s easy to forget the land’s rhythms and cycles, but when I read about the work of harvest, I feel reconnected and reminded. Remember that first harvest season at Rowan Tree? Someone said -- maybe it was Dar?-- harvest that year was a harvest of people and their skills. How far you’ve come in only three years!
I often think about Dar. It grieves me to know he no longer travels the roads with Gideon and his little cart. What a special person he was.
Pausing for a moment of business, I’d be delighted to buy any of Rowan Tree’s weaving. I regularly buy from Minerva and her pupils, of course, but Maria’s work is unique. There’s something of the desert in it, something of bleached bones and burning sun. You needn’t worry about sending me an inventory. I’ll gladly take whatever you’ve got, be it rugs, shawls, capes or bedding. You didn’t say if Kunik expects to have excess pieces this year after the local harvest fairs, but I’ll take anything he might have, too. I know it’s a longer wait for the money when I sell for you, but I hope the higher prices I can command make up for it.
I’m disturbed to read about Rose Red’s oak tree falling ill, not only because it’s such a magnificent old tree and beloved by her, but also because it underlines my own private worries. The truth is, I have a feeling something is wrong in Webbd. I’ve felt this way on a ship -- an uncomfortable tense feeling in the pit of my stomach that something’s not right. The first time I felt it I told myself I was being silly, but several hours later we discovered a leak and the Marella had taken on quite a bit of water belowdecks before we managed to patch her up. After that, I don’t ignore a feeling like this.
Tonight I write from Griffin Town. I’m staying, as always, with Minerva’s friend, who also looks after Cassandra. It’s a pleasant fall evening. A window is open over the desk where I’m sitting and the town is peaceful. I can hear gulls down in the harbor, probably welcoming the fishing fleet back. Everything seems absolutely normal and unremarkable.
I’ve thought perhaps there was something amiss at Rowan Tree, where there are so many people I care about, but aside from the tree and Rose Red’s distress, your letter reassures me that, for the most part, all is well. I’ve lately heard from Vasilisa, too. She’s with the Rusalka and Morfran.
I did lose a friend recently. His name was Irvin, and he was a merman. I met him before I met you. He had two dear children, a boy and a girl. I’m not sure where Clarissa is, but Chris, her younger brother, has traveled with me ever since I built the Marella. He’s a bright boy, and quite artistic.
Irvin was working as a lighthouse keeper, of all things, when he died. There’s an isolated stone tower on a treacherous coast that needed a keeper and he agreed to go. He was fascinated with humans and the land. If you remember, his wife -- the children’s mother -- was a human. He was a dreamy fellow, always quoting bits of poetry and lore. He lived quite happily there, with his books and his writing. I visited him whenever I passed that way.
The loss of my friend is as nothing compared to Chris’s grief at losing his father. Under the lighthouse a cellar is built into the cliffs. A narrow passage through the rock leads to a well in the cellar. The sea people used this means to visit Irvin, and Chris used it as a kind of art studio.
The sea is filled with wonders, treasures and strange creatures and people. Irvin loved their stories, songs and poetry. I know now I did the right in deciding to spend the rest of my days traveling on the water. I wouldn’t have been happy in that nice little town your father wanted me to oversee, and I don’t think you would have been either.
There’s something else, too. I haven’t told anyone else because I feel like a fool -- I think I must be confused, or mistaken -- but something’s wrong in the night sky.
I know. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I haven’t been a sailing merchant long, but I did think I was familiar with many of the constellations long before now. After all, I sailed in my youth quite a bit. Just recently, in the northern sky, a constellation seems to be missing. The Warrior is there, and The Hound, but Cerus the Bull is gone.
But this can’t be, can it? A whole constellation can’t suddenly disappear!
Sailors are a superstitious lot. Perhaps it’s catching. Perhaps I’m merely overtired.
Anyway, my heart is lighter knowing you’re all well and happy, the animals thrive and the gardens bear well. Perhaps the old oak is merely in a natural part of its cycle and will soon regain its health. If the Red Dancer is dancing, everything must be all right!
I heard a strange rumor down at the wharf last evening in a bar. A sailor talked about a new lighthouse keeper in the stone tower where Irvin worked. He said it was a woman with short blond hair. It made me think of Rapunzel and her tower. Vasilisa said Rapunzel has left the birch forest. I wonder where she is now?
I’ll close now, and eat a meal. Don’t let my imaginings worry you, dear heart. Keep in touch. I’ll let you know when I next sail. Give everyone my love, most especially Rose Red.
Radulf
Thoughtfully, Ginger folded Radulf’s letter and tucked it into a pocket. It wasn’t like him to be nervous, and it worried her. She frowned. If Radulf said stars were missing -- then they were missing. He knew the night sky intimately, in spite of his modesty.
But how could a whole constellation be missing?
It didn’t make sense.
“How is he?” Maria stood above her, balancing a basket of onions on her hip. Her skirt was bunched up and her hands smeared with dirt.
Ginger scrambled to her feet and took a basket handle, sharing the load. They carried it into the root cellar and Ginger knelt, sorting the onions into their winter storage.
“He’s good. He’s in Griffin Town. He says he wants whatever weaving you have, and whatever Kunik has, too.”
“Good. That means we’ll see the money next spring, when we most need it.”
They emerged from the root cellar and Maria glanced up at the sun.
“We’ve done enough for today. What do you say to a cool bath in the river before we dance tonight?”
“I say, lead me to it,” laughed Ginger.
***
The autumn Rowan Tree had been founded, Ginger and Maria had lived together in a rudimentary shelter with two closet-like sleeping rooms. During that first winter the two women grew close. Ginger had lived and slept with eleven younger sisters all her life, and couldn’t imagine living alone. Maria, isolated by choice for much of her life because of shame and self-loathing about murdering her young children and destroying herself, found the younger woman’s friendship and companionship enormously healing. During Rowan Tree’s first summer, Maria’s small dwelling was enlarged to accommodate them both, with room for Maria’s loom, and a balance of space for living together and individual privacy.
After the dance, Ginger moved like a red flame around the kitchen in her gauze dancing skirt as Baubo and Maria sat at the wooden table. The evening air struck chilly and a fire flickered on the hearth.
Baubo had joined them in dance, as she did from time to time. They didn’t expect her but were always glad to see her. The earthy old woman added an element of humor and play to the dance, shaking and jiggling, wide-hipped and grinning hilariously as she farted and belched. But here at the table she looked old and rather careworn in the fragile firelight as she told them about Persephone and her lost child.
“Oh, dear,” said Maria, her brown eyes filled with tears. “Where is the grave, Baubo? We must make a descanso.”
“We buried her next to Persephone’s garden,” said Baubo. “Demeter planted herbs over her. Hades was there, but Persephone had left.”
“Left! Where did she go? Is she with Demeter?” asked Maria.
“No. She left Hades…for a time.”
“She left Hades the place or Hades the man?” asked Ginger.
Baubo sighed. “Both. She went to an isolated stone tower on the coast to keep a—“
“Lighthouse,” finished Ginger flatly.
Baubo and Maria looked at her in surprise. Ginger groped for the letter in her pocket.
“Listen.”
When Ginger had finished reading the letter, Maria said, “But that doesn’t sound like Persephone the sailor talked about. It sounds like Rapunzel, as improbable as it seems.”
“Rapunzel’s there too,” said Baubo.
“But how — why?” asked Ginger. “It makes no sense.”
“I’m not sure,” said Baubo, “but here’s what I suspect. I think the lighthouse keeper died and went to Hades, where he talked with Persephone. She was grieving and maybe it seemed to her a place to get right away, a place to hide for a while and lick her wounds. I’m not sure how Rapunzel wound up there, but Radulf is right.” She tapped the letter where it lay on the table. “I’ve heard whispers, too, that something is wrong with Webbd. It’s nothing definite, but there’s unease in the wind. I think something’s coming, something destructive and evil. I suspect the presence of Rapunzel and Persephone together at the stone tower is no coincidence. Even so, I’m worried about Persephone. She wasn’t herself, and she slipped away before I felt satisfied of her recovery. If she is with Rapunzel I’m comforted, but I want to know she’s all right. Hades is like half a man without her, Demeter’s beside herself, and the Underworld needs its queen. Also, Persephone left before we’d made final arrangements for the child.”
“You mean she doesn’t know where her daughter’s buried?” asked Maria.
“No. There wasn’t time. She didn’t say goodbye or tell anyone what she planned to do.” Baubo looked from Ginger to Maria. “There’s a reason I’ve come tonight. You remember Rapunzel went to the Rusalka to learn drumming and sacred dance?”
“Of course,” said Maria.
“Well, she did learn. And Hades tells me practically all Persephone took with her was her dumbek.”
“And you think,” said Ginger slowly, “I…”
“I think you might be able to dance with them,” said Baubo bluntly. “I don’t know why Rapunzel has returned to an isolated tower, but I suspect she too is dealing with some kind of pain. I taught Persephone to dance myself, and I told her to return to it whenever she was in need, but it’s hard to dance in the apathy of despair. I think if you went, Ginger, and demanded Rapunzel drum and led them both to dance, they might express their feelings and begin to heal their troubles. Persephone’s no mean drummer herself, you know.”
“Well…I can try,” said Ginger doubtfully. “But I don’t know either of them well and I haven’t lost a child. Are you sure I’m the right person? Rapunzel’s a witch and Persephone’s a queen! I’m just…ordinary.”
“I’m sure you’re the right person,” said Baubo firmly.
Four days later Ginger left Rowan Tree, laden with messages and gifts. Persephone and Demeter had visited the community their first fall and proved invaluable in helping them prepare for winter. Persephone had brought rabbits, which she bred, the beginnings of a now thriving colony. Now the community sent their thoughts, prayers and sympathy to Persephone.
Rose Red took Ginger aside the day before she departed.
“Will you take a message for me?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Ginger. “What is it?”
“Remind her of an ancient piece of wisdom she taught me,” said Rose Red. “Remind her to let die what must, and give her this.” She stepped forward and put her arms around Ginger, kissing her on both cheeks and then the lips. A tear transferred itself from her cheek to Ginger’s.
“I’ll remind her,” promised Ginger, wiping the tear away.
***
Somewhat to Ginger’s surprise, Demeter traveled with her to the lighthouse. She arrived at Rowan Tree with a spare horse. Ginger and her sisters had learned to ride as children, and she felt like a child again as she swung her leg up and over the mare’s back and felt the familiar contours of the saddle beneath her. She was going on an adventure without her family, Radulf or Maria. She was going into a largely unknown world, traveling to a strange place in an effort to help two women she hardly knew because Baubo said she was needed.
The Corn Goddess was all warmth and nurture, just as Ginger remembered her from the first months at Rowan Tree. Ginger rested in her presence as any child might rest with its mother. Demeter seemed quiet and slightly careworn, but after all, the harvest season was her busiest time, and Persephone’s tragedy had surely taken its toll. Ginger supposed the lost child would have been Demeter’s first grandchild.
However, she talked of other subjects, telling Demeter stories about Rowan Tree and its people, the animals and the gardens. At night the two women lay in their sleeping rolls and looked up at the stars. Ginger couldn’t honestly say she noticed a difference, but she had not been educated in star lore. Demeter’s concern rested almost wholly with the land, and she knew less than Ginger of the constellations.
As they drew nearer to the tower, Demeter expressed her intention to part from Ginger, sending her on alone.
“Why aren’t you coming yourself?” Ginger asked. “Surely you’d help more than I can?”
“No,” said Demeter firmly. “I can’t help Persephone now. If I’d been what she needed she would have come to me. She knows my love and support are with her. Now I need to stand aside and let her find her own way through her life. She can, and she will, and others will be better able to help her than I am. You, for example, my dear. I’ll be there when she needs me, but my own life needs attention, as well my own work in the world. I lost sight of that for a time after she left, but I learned one of the greatest gifts to give one’s child is the knowledge that the parent is well, and happy, and going forward.”
Ginger accepted this, and wondered if her own mother had these feelings, and if she herself would feel them, if one day she had her own child.
They parted one October day, only half a day’s walk from the tower. Ginger gave the mare a kiss on her long nose and a final scratch in the roots of her mane. She and Demeter embraced and Ginger stood and watched the two horses and the Corn Goddess out of sight. It was midmorning, a crisp, clear fall day.
Ginger set out on the last couple miles of her journey, her face to the sea, and gradually the earth and scrubby grass under her feet gave way to rock. She saw the tower thrusting up toward the sky, smelled the wind off the sea and idly watched a large white shape at the tower’s base, wondering what it might be, until, as she drew close, she saw an enormous white cow.
It grazed peacefully in a pile of hay, but Ginger stopped abruptly when she recognized what it was. She had no experienced with cows, and unless she was much mistaken this was in fact a bull, with an impressive set of pendulous testicles. It wasn’t precisely between her and the tower door, but she suspected it could reach the door quicker than she could, and it had a daunting set of marble horns, though one looked broken near the tip and, incongruously, the horns were wreathed with plaited grass and a few late flowers. Its hide was milk white and looked as smooth as silk, its hooves polished obsidian.
While Ginger stood, hesitating, Persephone herself came out the door, which stood ajar, letting in the fresh air and sun. She in her turn stopped in surprise, seeing Ginger. The bull left its hay and approached Persephone her, licking her hand with a long, thick tongue. Absently, Persephone smoothed her hand along its neck.
“Ginger? Is it you?”
“Yes,” said Ginger, a little uncertainly.