The Tower: Part 3: Samhain

Post #20: In which balance and surrender ...

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Persephone felt as though the story had been deliberately aimed at her. She resolved to ask no question and participate in no discussion about it and wished fervently to quickly move on to another part of the ritual. She lowered her eyes and looked at her clasped hands.

The circle fell silent. After a minute or two, the silence became unnatural. Persephone glanced up through lowered lashes at Heks, sitting beside her. She appeared to study the fire, her face expressionless. Eurydice, across from her, looked faintly bewildered, glancing openly from face to face. Morfran looked intently at one of his knees. Vasilisa sat with one hand in her apron pocket, her gaze fixed on Baba Yaga. Hecate’s face remained hidden in her hood’s shadow and Artemis leaned her forehead on her hand, shielding her eyes. Rumpelstiltskin sat with bowed head, his features indistinguishable behind his beard.

The fire popped loudly, and Persephone flinched, feeling as though she broke free of some kind of paralysis. Everyone in the circle moved, sighed, shifted position. The silence became expectant.

Hecate rose. She disappeared under Baba Yaga’s hut and returned to the circle with the bone basket Death had brought. The wolf walked at her heels. Artemis withdrew a knife from a sheath at her waist and handed it to Hecate, who murmured in thanks. Hecate lifted one of the round objects from the basket and it glowed warmly in the fire and skull light. Persephone recognized a pomegranate and once again felt singled out. Was she to be publicly punished now for turning her back on her promise to protect the Underworld, a promise made by ritually eating pomegranate seeds?

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She watched as Hecate expertly sliced the fruit. It opened like a blossom and she turned it over and gave it a sharp tap on the rim of a bowl. The seeds filled the bowl with a pattering sound. Hecate flicked a few tenacious seeds from the rind with the knife’s point, threw the rind in the fire and picked up another fruit.

When the basket was empty, she set it aside and held the bowl in both hands. The seeds glistened in the dancing light. “Persephone, Eurydice and Vasilisa,” said Hecate, “approach, my daughters.”

Persephone rose and the circle reformed into a loose audience as the three women approached Hecate. Baba Yaga stayed seated on her stump. Death, still wearing his foolish beard and carrying the scythe, joined Hecate, standing behind her shoulder like a guard. The wolf sat on her other side, amber eyes alert.

“Tonight, we perform the Ceremony of the Mother and Crone. Understand in Motherhood you must come to terms with death, with change, with time and with hunger, for as mother you feed rather than being fed. You must come to terms with the limits of your power. Childbearing and rearing can be the smiling face of Motherhood, but also bring great pain, the desolation of loss and starvation and the understanding of aging and mortality. Motherhood is life. Motherhood is death.”

Hecate’s words slashed open Persephone’s loss and she wept. She felt Eurydice take her hand in a firm clasp. Persephone felt ashamed to stand before them all, the Queen of the Underworld, and reveal such grief over a death, but she couldn’t prevent the upswelling emotion.

“You have already experienced something of which I speak,” Hecate said, addressing her directly. “Persephone, here is yet another crossroad. You once pledged yourself to love and to responsibility for a sacred threshold. Now will you renew that pledge, with a deeper understanding of the inexorable balance of life and death? Will you risk it? Will you dare it? Or do you wish to turn away and take another road?”

Persephone, shaking with sobs, reached for the bowl and felt the seeds, smooth and wet, against her fingers. She scooped some up and put them in her mouth. The tart, cool flavor refreshed her. She wiped her face with her sleeve and returned the pressure of Eurydice’s hand, feeling both comforted and suddenly exhausted.

She would go home.

“Eurydice, Gatekeeper, Opener of Ways, you too are ready to transform Maidenhood into Motherhood. Understand Motherhood takes many forms and caring for children wears many aspects. I do not say your path is to conceive and bear a child, though it may be so. I do say your ability to nurture and care for others is now needed, though it may end in death more often than life. At Janus House, Yggdrasil, and Rowan Gate, you pledged yourself to opening the way for others. Now, at this crossroad, will you renew that pledge, understanding death and loss may be on the other side of thresholds as well as life and joy? You yourself came from life to death and back again. Are you strong enough to support others on such a sacred path? Or do you wish to turn away and take another road?”

Persephone gave Eurydice’s hand a final squeeze and released it, not wanting to influence her choice. Eurydice, after a short pause, reached for the bowl of pomegranate seeds. “I will enter Motherhood,” she said in a steady voice, and ate the seeds.

“Vasilisa the Wise,” said Hecate, and Persephone thought she heard respect and affection in her tone. “You, too, stand on a crossroad. Your Maidenhood has ripened into something greater. As I said, I do not know in what form Motherhood may come to you, but do you choose now to embrace it, come what may? Do you understand Motherhood involves the duality of life and death in all its aspects?”

Vasilisa rested one hand in her apron pocket, but with the other she reached for the bowl of seeds without hesitation. “I consent to Motherhood,” she said clearly, and ate the seeds.

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Hecate stepped aside, and Death stood before Persephone. His empty eye sockets appeared bottomless as she looked into them. Gently, he laid his hands on her belly. Tears ran down her face at the intimate tenderness of his touch. Leaving his left hand where it lay, Death touched her breasts in turn, first left, then right, almost with reverence. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against her wet cheeks, first left, then right, and she felt the ridge of his maxilla above his teeth.

Death stepped sideways and faced Eurydice, who stood as though rooted to the ground and met his gaze. With one hand he touched her belly, her left breast and her right breast, and then he took both her hands, turning them palms up, and stroking them with his bony fingers. He dropped his head and kissed each palm, closing her fingers over the place he had kissed and returning her hands, which she held clenched to her breast as he turned away.

Standing before Vasilisa, Death pointed at her apron and held out a hand. She reached in her pocket and gave him a small doll. It was dressed like Vasilisa herself in a black skirt, white apron and vest embroidered with colored thread. Death raised the doll, cradling it against his shoulder as though it was an infant, patting its back gently, and then returned it. Vasilisa slipped it back into her pocket. Again, Death performed the ritual of acknowledgement and touch: Belly, left breast, right breast. For a moment he stood looking into Vasilisa’s face, she returning his gaze steadily. She smiled a small smile.

“So be it,” said Hecate. “Sit now.”

Persephone and the other two women joined the audience. Baba Yaga, from her stump, pointed a long, iron-tipped finger at Heks and then Artemis. “You and you. Let’s see what you’re made of! No soft, round, moist motherhood for you! No milky seed and milky mouths for you! Iron and brimstone! Blood and bone! Fear and despair! If you can face them, which I doubt!” She cackled as she rose, adjusted her scarves and moved to stand next to Hecate and Death.

“The Ceremony of the Crone is an invitation to darkness,” began Hecate. “To be Crone is to consort with Death, with endings and with loss. To be Crone is to wield power and insight, to enter into the heart of sensuality and feeling, to exercise curiosity, nonattachment and persistence. To be Crone is to become a drinker of one’s own blood and to nourish oneself after Motherhood’s long starvation.”

Baba Yaga smacked her lips. “The taste of blood, eh Heksie? Red iron on the tongue! Gristle between your teeth! Sucking the rich dark marrow out of bone! A feast of death! An orgy of stench and taste and a gravy of blood!” She glared into Heks’s eyes, the tangled hairs marking the meeting of nose and chin nearly touching the smaller woman’s forehead. Heks stood steadily, not moving a muscle, and Persephone admired her fortitude. She suppressed her own impulse to hide her face in her hands and shut out the firelit scene.

Artemis stood like a statue, her silver bow resting beside her.

“To be Crone is a pledge to be real, to see and be seen, to recognize the shadow as well as the light and honor both,” continued Hecate as though Baba Yaga hadn’t spoken. “To be Crone is to encompass Maidenhood and Motherhood, guiding those who walk behind. As Crone you feel what is too much to feel, do what you cannot bear to do, speak truth no one else dares to speak, lose what you cannot live without, and flourish and thrive in defiance of your loss.”

“Now you stand at a crossroad, my daughters. Do you choose to enter Cronehood? Do you choose to be fed from Death’s lips? Do you choose the path of power? Or do you wish to take another road? Think carefully before you answer, for this threshold is a bloody one.”

Persephone fought back the desire to cry out a warning to Heks and Artemis. The awfulness of her own loss once again brought tears to her eyes and choked her. How could anyone choose such certain agony? It wasn’t fair! It was a cruel choice, too high a price for wisdom and power.

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“I will cross the threshold,” Heks said in a ringing voice. At once, Death handed his scythe to Hecate, who stood next to him, stepped forward and took Heks in his arms, Persephone gasped with surprise. For a moment she felt she watched lovers. There was something erotic about the way they pressed themselves together, their hands moving frankly over one another’s hips, backs, buttocks and shoulders. Persephone felt a shocking stab of lust and desire for Hades as she watched, actual envy of Heks, with her scanty grey hair, lined face and nearly sexless body. Her own body cried out for such an embrace, for exploring touch, rough and insistent, for male scent, pressure and texture.

Then they broke apart, Heks and Death, and the scene froze. Persephone suddenly became aware of the sound and smell of the fire, gnawing hunger in her belly, and discomfort in her legs and hips from sitting on the hard, cold ground. No one moved. She clearly heard Eurydice’s stomach growl.

Artemis stood like a statue. She appeared to be studying the ground. As Persephone watched, Artemis glanced at the White Stag. He raised his head, with its hawthorn crown, and met her glance steadily with his big, dark eyes. For a moment his bearing was kingly and proud again, and then he dropped his head wearily, the “whuff” of his sigh sounding loud in the silence.

Artemis choked, and Persephone realized she wept. “We will cross the threshold,” she said, her voice thickened but resolute. She dropped her right hand to the sheath holding the knife Hecate had used to cut up the pomegranates. Death stepped before her and laid his mouth on hers. This time there was no embrace, only the meeting of Artemis’s lips and Death’s bared teeth and bony maxilla and mandible. It seemed more a pact than a passionate exchange, Persephone thought. A promise, given and received.

Death took his lips from Artemis’s, whirled on his heel, plucked the scythe from Hecate’s hand, took four bounding steps to where the White Stag stood by the fire, raised the scythe and brought it down in a glittering arc on the White Stag’s neck.

The stag collapsed in a bloody fountain, his thick neck nearly severed.

Persephone cried out in horror, her voice lost in the others’ cries. She heard Artemis call, “Cerunmos!” and recognized the name of the Horned God, Lord of Wild Creatures, the Hunter, the sacred consort. Of course! She thought in a flash of understanding, Samhain is the ritual of the Horned God and the Crone.

Baba Yaga’s howl of rage rose above the confusion, silencing everyone. “Impuissant slackwit! Marrowless milktoast! Chicken-livered, lily-hearted yellow belly!” She danced with rage before Death, scarves and beads flying. “Gutless pantywaist!” she spat.

Death stood calmly, the stag’s blood dripping from his white bones, the scythe’s blade resting on the ground at his side.

“Enough!” said Artemis sharply, surprising Persephone. “It was our choice and intention, his and mine, that surrendered to his death. We chose and I was prepared to see our choice through. Death merely acted in my behalf. The threshold is crossed. It’s time now for the men.”

“Men,” sneered the Baba. “Men! An undersized weakling, fit only for nanny duty, who got himself run out of town with stones and rotten eggs, and a crippled half-breed! They’re not men, they’re boys!” She straightened her scarves and yanked her belled fringe back across her forehead, still glaring at Death.

“The boys can’t take their turn, because yon cockeyed marriddle is late. And I’m hungry! I’ve a fancy for bone soup, if there’s no meat to be had.” She looked Death over meaningfully.

Persephone didn’t know what the Baba was talking about. She exchanged puzzled looks with the others. Hecate and the wolf had moved around the fire, away from the stag’s body and the blood-soaked ground near it. Artemis joined her, seating herself again on the ground, her silvery bow beside her. Persephone stood up, pulling Eurydice with her and retaining her grasp on her shaking hand. Vasilisa, white-faced in the firelight, followed them. Heks laid a comforting hand on Persephone’s shoulder and sat beside her. Morfran and Rumpelstiltskin stayed on their feet, coming to stand near Hecate. Baba Yaga, with an audible grunt and an explosive fart, lifted the stump she’d been sitting on and carried it to the new location, squatting on it like a brooding malevolent toad wrapped in a gauzy tutu.

Persephone heard a sound, as though mighty gates closed, and then, far away, the desolate calling of wild geese, invisible in the night sky. At the same time, a rough breeze agitated the birch trees around them, though, oddly, the air remained still near the ground. The fire burned cleanly, the flames reaching up into the night. Vasilisa’s fiery skull blazed into even brighter light with a sound like a soft explosion.

Persephone had heard that sound before. She’d stood on a windy hillside in another life, alone, seeking … something, listening to Odin and his Wild Hunt approach on the wind’s wings.

Artemis raised her head, listening.

“Odin,” breathed Vasilisa.

“What is it?” whispered Eurydice to Persephone.

“Odin and the Wild Hunt. Baba Yaga must be waiting for him.”

A large black winged shape flew into the clearing and a raven perched on Baba Yaga’s roof, croaking and cawing in a voice of cinders. The breeze above became a gale, and the tree tops thrashed. Now Persephone could hear hoofbeats and harsh metal-throated horns. Hounds bayed dismally and a rising clamor of male voices approached, cursing and shouting.

Persephone could see the Hunt’s forerunners, a tattered black ribbon sweeping across the sky, blotting out the stars. A single speck detached itself and circled away, descending, and as it drew nearer, she saw two shapes loping behind it and recognized Odin’s wolves. The Hunt spread out behind the leaders like a narrow wing, staying high above the trees and passing over, its noise slowly fading, along with the wind, though it still stirred Odin’s horse’s mane and tail into a wild tangle.

The horse landed neatly on the ground with a thump. He had a white blaze on his face and three white socks, and Persephone guessed he was roan, though she couldn’t distinguish his color in the firelight. The two wolves landed lightly and Hecate’s wolf trotted to meet them. They touched noses briefly, tails erect. Each passed a little urine, which the others thoroughly sniffed, and then Hecate’s wolf returned to her side, Odin’s animals taking up positions on either side of him as he dismounted.

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“You’re late,” remarked Baba Yaga disagreeably from her stump.

Odin took no notice. His glance took in the little group seated on the ground and the White Stag’s body. He exchanged a casual nod with Death, who stood as though guarding the dead stag, still holding the bloodstained scythe.

Hecate, more formal, inclined her head in greeting as Odin approached her before seating herself near Artemis. Morfran and Rumpelstiltskin remained standing. Persephone couldn’t see the Dwarve’s features through his beard, but Morfran looked uncertain.

Cloaked, with a broad-brimmed hat and a long grey beard that put Death’s facsimile to shame, Odin approached Morfran and Rumpelstiltskin.

“We have met before, Morfran, foster son of Bald Tegid and Ceridwen, grandson of Marceau, Sea King,” said Odin, and swept off his hat. His back was to Persephone, but she well remembered Odin’s empty eye socket.

Morfran looked astonished. “Timor!”

“Yes. And you, Rumpelstiltskin, I know of, though we have not met.” Odin knelt, looking natural and youthful, so as not to tower over the Dwarve.

“And I have heard of you, also,” said the Dwarve.

“Will you allow me to guide you through this ceremony?” Odin’s keen one-eyed gaze moved from the Dwarve’s face to Morfran’s.

Receiving consent from both, Odin regained his feet.

“Female energy and male energy balance one another. The act of procreation and the continuation of life depend on that balance. To be male, to implant a woman with seed through penetration, is sacred. To be female, to receive penetration and nurture new life in the womb, is likewise sacred. Each distinct participant is required for the covenant of life.”

“Procreation is but one of three male tasks. The others are protection and provision. On this night Cerunmos, the Horned King, protector of the wild, has willingly sacrificed himself to feed others.”

“Our world sickens. Yrtym’s scaffold wavers. Connection breaks. It’s a time of crisis, and if we are to survive it, we must look to balance. We must look to connection. We must discover the disease crippling the natural cycles and the turning wheel.”

“I invite you now to step onto the path of mature manhood. Our task is to feed the Mother, creator of life. She has conceived, birthed, fed and sustained you, and now you will complete the circle and nourish Her. We begin by accepting the Horned King’s sacrifice. We continue by walking the path of male power, acting, building, repairing, forsaking the comfort of the light and the known, and accepting endings, loss and fear. Will you descend in the dark and face your shadows? Will you take your place in the sacred balance between male and female power?”

“I will,” said Morfran.

“I will,” said Rumpelstiltskin.

“Then let us prepare and cook the meat,” said Odin.

As they turned away, Baba Yaga grumbled, “They’ll take all night and mangle the meat in the bargain. I’m a better butcher than you’ll ever be!” she shrieked after the three figures. Turning back to the group seated on the ground, she tapped thoughtfully her tusk with a dirty fingernail. “How shall we entertain ourselves while we wait, girls?” she purred. “Let me see.” She gave an exaggerated start, closed her eyes and began swaying, her hands clasped against her bosom. “Yesss! Sspeak to me, spirits! Oohhh, the message comes! It comes! We shall… we shall dandle … no, no, that’s not quite right! We shall dandify … no, speak, spirits! We await your wisdom! … Dance! That’s it! We shall skip, shuffle, samba and shimmy! We shall jig and jive, prance and polka!”

Persephone felt cold and stiff. The smell of freshly-killed meat and blood mingled with the fire, making her empty stomach twist ferociously. Her grief, shock and sympathy for Artemis weighed her down. She, Eurydice and Heks had traveled for days and fasted since they arrived. She wanted a hot meal, a hot drink and a warm, comfortable bed. The idea of dancing with this oddly-assorted group while the White Stag’s body was butchered an arms-length away seemed horrible. She sat stubbornly, her eyes fixed on the ground. She would not dance because this hideous hag ordered her to, no matter her power.