The Hanged Man: Part 1: The Hanged Man, Part 2: Mabon
Post #1: In which a storyteller begins his tale, a daughter separates from her mother, the Wild Hunt rides, and lovers are brought together ...
(If you prefer to read Parts 1 and 2 in their entirety, go here. For the next serial post, go here.)
Part 1: The Hanged Man
The Card: The Hanged Man
life in suspension; a pause
It begins with the Hanged Man.
Harvest passed through his hands, but they’re slack and empty now, scarred from picking, mowing and cutting the yield. He existed in the kiss of stone and blade, the rapturous sickle shape of the scythe. He inhabited callus, gash, thorn, wasp sting and torn fingernail. His sweat oiled the handles of a thousand tools. His blood and seed oozed out of discarded sinking fruit, smelling of rot, on the parched stubble.
Now comes peace after mighty effort. Blankets of snow are soon to cover November’s bony bed. The Hanged Man rests, dried and diminished in loose nakedness, dangling upside down by one leg from a skeletal bough. The snake, Mirmir, wraps around the branch, anchoring the Hanged Man, his flat head swaying near the man’s gold-ringed ear.
Mirmir murmurs of what might be and what might not be, what has been and what has not been, of time past and coming again soon. He whispers of worlds like glowing marbles turning through dark space, blue and green, grey and brown. Each world is a long, long story; each life a shorter one. The stories are bound, one to another, a net of star and crystal flung across the cosmos, linking one world to another so the leaves at the top of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, intertwine with the stars, each to tell, each to listen.
In this tree, on this small planet called Webbd, a crimson cloak hangs, a thin worn leaf of glory, sieving chill wind, fluttering, as leaf, snake, man, star and story revolve in endless dance, here at the turning point.
The Hanged Man listens. And he smiles.
Part 2: Mabon
(MAY-bone or MAH-bawn) Autumn equinox, the balance point between summer solstice and winter solstice. The second of three harvest points in the cycle, a time to complete tasks, measure success, give thanks and prepare for winter.
The Card: Two of Wands
growth, movement, action, clear seeing; division and boundaries
CHAPTER 1
PERSEPHONE
“Stop with the flowers! No more flowers!” Persephone glared at Demeter.
“But I love you!” Demeter’s lip trembled.
“Mother,” said Persephone between her teeth, “I’m suffocating. You’re embarrassing me. You’ve wrapped me up in a stifling blanket of flowers and fruit and grain and I hate it! I want to be free!”
“Free,” said Demeter, her voice rising. “Free from what? I’m your mother, young lady. Your mother! You’ll never be free from that!”
“Don’t count on it!” said Persephone in fury, and slammed the door behind her.
Not for the first time, Persephone took refuge in the comforting company of the horses. These days she often pulled herself onto a broad back to amble through field and forest, restless and frustrated. Sometimes she came across people working the land or caring for flocks and herds, and stopped to exchange country talk of weather, crops and animals.
Harvest ushered in the season of the Wild Hunt, when storms swept across the sky and stole away the souls of the dead. A night belonging to the Wild Hunt by long tradition approached, and farmers and shepherds made ready to protect their animals and families.
On nights when the Hunt rode, Demeter made sure she and Persephone were well within doors. Persephone remembered the sound of those wild nights when the gale thrashed in treetops. The iron hooves of the horses, clamor of horns and hounds, and shouts and curses of the Hunt swept through the dark sky in a wave of tumult, ominous and exciting.
Odin, Wind God, summoned the Hunt and autumn storms, and Persephone knew his daughters, the Valkyries, rode with the hunt. Might Odin provide her with a teacher or a path to the future?
The autumn days grew shorter, Demeter preserved a hurt dignity and Persephone longed for a life of more than abundance and beauty.
HADES
Hades brooded on the lot he’d drawn with his brothers to decide who would rule each portion of Webbd. Poseidon drew the sea. Well and good for him! Plenty of movement and life there. Plenty of company and beauty. And Zeus drew the sky and was never seen anymore. Typical. Zeus always grabbed what he wanted and he always wanted the best of everything. He would appropriate the highest seat in the stadium. Hades himself drew the Underworld. Certainly, he possessed the worst part of the bargain! And now the eternity of his life was to be nothing but cold bones and death. His soul sickened. He longed for the sight of something more than rocks and the spectral dead. His power was empty. Despair and rebellion swallowed him.
One of Odin’s wolves carried an invitation from Odin to Hades to ride with the Wild Hunt and gather dead souls lost in storms and winds of the lengthening nights. Odin needed Hades to oversee the work, as the dead were his responsibility. Hades considered, shoulders hunched, while he sat by the fire. More of the cursed dead, as though the place wasn't already filled with them! Still, a chance to be back in the world with a strong horse beneath him, the sound of hounds and horns and wind in his face! He accepted.
MIRMIR
“In all timess and placess live thosse who ssee what’ss hidden,” Mirmir whispered, sounding like dry leaves rustling. “Their ears hear the prayers of the heart better than the prayers of the lips. They visit altars in forests, on moors, on hearths; altars decorated with symbol and rune, a pack of shabby cards, a handful of sticks or bones. Old women wait at crossroads with a gift. Uncanny peddlers spread their wares. Crones spit on a handful of marbles like jewels, galaxies in their eyes. Musicians walk with enchantment in their packs. And an old man with a staff, a cloak, and a weathered and worn hat tilted to hide an empty eye socket, wanders here and there, seldom speaking, his one eye seeing more in a day than any other two in a lifetime.”
“Odin,” sighed the Hanged Man. Sunlight shone through the tired gilt of a few remaining leaves and fingered his thin hair.
“Who knowss the thoughtss of thosse collectorss of sstoriess and prayerss?” Mirmir continued. “Who can gauge the depth of their wisdom or humor? How far behind and how far ahead do they see? And if Persephone, in her frustration, and Hades, in his anger, are offered a choice, a risk, a chance to change their lives, will they take it?”
“Tell me how it was,” said the Hanged Man.
PERSEPHONE
The night of the Wild Hunt, Persephone resolved to spend a pleasant evening before the fire with her mother. She praised the bread and honey and drank barley water, Demeter’s favorite, without complaint. They sliced apples for drying and Demeter relaxed into loving maternal approval.
Eventually, Persephone yawned and suggested bed, watching as Demeter checked to see that windows and doors were locked and barred.
While her mother breathed in sleep, Persephone plaited her long bright hair and wound it around her head under the hood of her woolen cloak. She wore sturdy country clothes, thick and warm. She made her way out of the house and into the night.
The moon, Noola, pale and tired, lay on her back. Later, Cion would rise, filling the sky with her silvery body. Persephone moved warily away from the cottage into a grove of trees. A breeze rose and rustled the highest leaves. A raven croaked unexpectedly, like a signal. Persephone came out of the trees’ shelter, her breathing easing as she put distance between herself and her sleeping mother. She walked across the long rolling flank of a hill, under open sky. Here she could see and be seen. She stood with her face raised. A gust of wind snatched the hem of her cloak and bellied it out like a sail. In a sudden rush of wings, a raven came to rest on her shoulder. She gasped and flinched, but it gripped the wool of her cloak and held on.
She heard a sound as though of mighty gates opening. From far up and away came the desolate calling of wild geese on the wing. The wind rose and rose again, and Persephone heard baying hounds, hooves of galloping horses and hunting horns, echoing and magnifying the call of the geese. The Wild Hunt swept across the sky in a dark wave of wind, and something fierce and exultant leapt in Persephone. She heard herself cry out, a wordless sound of triumph and strength, and spread her arms as though in command.
HADES
Fierce joy filled Hades. He gloried in the night, the Hunt, the feel of a horse between his knees. How long, how long since he’d been out in the beautiful world? For the moment, his gloom and resentment were forgotten. He added his voice to the voices of the Hunt and urged his horse on. An unkindness of ravens flew above the hunt, their grating calls contributing to the din.
Odin struck Hades on the knee with his staff and pointed with it at a figure on the long slope of a low hill ahead. At once Hades wheeled away across the hill’s flank. Wind tore at his beard and the horse's mane and tail and he grinned into it. The figure stood quite still, arms upraised, and as he swooped down toward it a black bird took off from its shoulder with a harsh cry, just audible in the gale, and flew after the Hunt. Hades grasped one of the upraised arms, not troubling to be gentle, and hauled the figure up behind him. He felt arms come around him in a tight hold, the warmth of a body against his back, and a head tucked between his shoulder blades, sheltering from the wind. With a cry, he loosened the reins and set the horse at a thunderous gallop to rejoin the hunt.
Hades gave no thought to the rider behind him. He stayed quiet and out of the way and Hades all but forgot his presence in the lust of the hunt and black passion of night sky and storm. Over and over he winded his horn. He shouted until he was hoarse. The hounds ran at his horse's feet, baying and howling at the scent of each soul. The horse fought bit and bridle, reared, screamed, outran the very wind, but couldn’t escape the will and strength of its rider, and Hades was drunk with his power over the great animal. The Hunt flowed out behind its leaders like a clamorous dark wing, and if more than lost souls were plundered, Hades took no notice.
PERSEPHONE
For some minutes, Persephone only concentrated on staying on the enormous horse. She could hardly straddle it. Its speed, combined with the gale of wind and storm and sounds of the Hunt, deafened and blinded her, snatching away her breath. She wrapped her arms around the man in front of her and hung on. His broad back provided some protection from the surrounding chaos and she clung to it, resting her cheek between his shoulder blades.
She could see the Hunt’s net sweep across the sky, gathering lost souls from the storm’s embrace, along with other flotsam and jetsam and a hailstorm of aggies and allies, catseyes and devil’s eyes, tigers and bloods and pearls, for Odin’s collection of marbles. She knew the one-eyed old man was a fearsome marble champion, a fact which many felt sadly diminished his dignity.
Persephone never forgot that ride, but even the most fearsome night must end in dawn. As the sky lightened at last, Odin led the Hunt to food and drink and the great hall of Valhalla.
Valhalla! Persephone leaned to the side to see around the bulk of the man in front of her. The gale was spent and dawn approached. Ahead, tucked in a hollow in the hills, she saw an immense hall, shining and golden. In moments, the Hunt clattered onto a cobbled courtyard. Men came from every direction. The hounds panted, tongues lolling, and horses stood with lowered heads, tails and manes in a wild tangle, hides streaked with sweat and rain. As the rider in front of her dismounted, Persephone slid off the broad back of the horse with him. In the crowd of beasts and men, with horses and dogs being led this way and that, none noticed her. She leaned for a moment against the horse's massive flank, her knees weak and trembling. The huntsmen followed Odin through an enormous set of carved doors under the snarling head of a wolf and into the hall. A stable boy took the horse’s reins and Persephone pulled her hood further down over her face and hair and followed the tired animal into the stable.
She revived in the familiar atmosphere. Generous stalls were deep bedded in clean straw. She saw a room filled with tack and saddles; several faucets producing clear, cold water; and a cavernous room and loft for storage of hay, straw, grain and other such essentials. Wary stable cats lurked everywhere amid forks and buckets, grooming brushes and combs, hay hooks and hoof picks. The good smells of horseflesh and manure greeted her nose. Grooms and boys hurried in every direction as each mount was led to a stall, rubbed down, brushed, fed and watered. The bustle gave way to the murmurous talk between horses and men who love them.
Persephone took advantage of a pump in a quiet corner, drank, and washed her face and hands. In the tack room, she found a lump of cheese and half a loaf near a partly-mended bridle, left, she supposed, when the Hunt arrived. She burrowed in between towering stacks of straw and ate her stolen meal. The stable grew quiet as the horses were left to rest. Sun shone in through high windows.
When quiet reigned, she made her way to the stall where the horse she’d ridden stood. She couldn’t guess why the rider took her off the hillside near her home, but she couldn’t spend the rest of her days hiding in this stable and Odin had taken no notice of her whatever, so she’d stay with the black stallion’s rider.
The horse dozed, a hind foot cocked. His hide shone, dry and clean. His feed bucket was empty. He raised his head and pricked his ears as she entered the stall. She passed her hands over his smooth, warm hide, scratching in the roots of his mane, murmuring the horse talk she’d learned as a young child in her mother's stable. He blew a warm breath down her neck, rubbed against her with his hard head, and then quieted again into somnolence. She settled into deep straw in a corner, wrapped in her cloak. She thought with a wry smile of what Demeter would say if she knew how her daughter had spent the night. She hadn’t left a note because she hadn’t known what would happen, and now she was sorry. Her mother would worry.
A raven alighted on the stall door and she remembered the sudden clutching weight on her shoulder on the dark hillside the night before. With a flap of wings, the bird moved to the horse’s broad back, strutting from rump to neck and tweaking a lock of mane in its beak. The horse snorted, shifted his weight, and cocked the other hind foot. The raven flew away.
Persephone rested, waiting for what would happen next.
***
Persephone roused out of half sleep. She heard new activity in the stable. The horse in whose stall she’d taken refuge snorted. She heard men's voices, the running feet of stable boys, the sounds of stall doors opening and latching and the horses themselves neighing and pawing.
Persephone took off her cloak and shook it free of straw. She tucked in strands of her unraveling hair, straightened her clothing, put the cloak back on and drew it over her head. She approached the horse, who greeted her with an impatient push of his head, and soothed him with soft words. She rubbed his forelock and between his ears, smoothed her fingers down his long muzzle. The latch on the stall door released and opened, but she didn’t turn. There was silence.
HADES
In the great hall of Valhalla, Hades and the other hunters refreshed themselves and took their ease at a long table. At either end of the hall, fires burned in fireplaces large enough to accommodate a spitted boar. The rafters of the hall were made of interlaced spear shafts and doors lined the walls. Odin sat in a carved wooden chair at the head of the table, two ravens perched on the back of the chair, one at each shoulder. He spoke little and listened much. Valkyries moved back and forth with empty plates and serving dishes, loaves of bread, rounds of cheese, tankards of ale and mead and platters of meat.
Hades sat at Odin's right hand, wordlessly eating and drinking. For a time, he’d escaped the confines of his life in the Land of the Dead, but soon he must go back and he didn’t know how to endure it. He lifted his tankard and saw Odin watching him. He set down the tankard without drinking.
"All of my life is death," he said to Odin. "How shall I live a life of death?"
"My friend," Odin replied, "all of life is death, and all of death is life. Don’t you understand you stand with one foot in each? How many can endure shadow and give birth to light?”
Hades shook his head.
"You haven’t yet begun to learn the secrets of your kingdom," said Odin.
"Is the price of my power to possess no companion, no warmth, no fellowship? Everyone fears and dreads me. My name is shunned and forgotten and I’m known only by the name of my cold realm!"
"Ah, well," said Odin, relaxing into a smile, "Who can tell?"
When every belly was full, the Valkyries cleared the table, swept the floor clean and set benches straight. Hades lay down on a pallet and slept. Sun shone through the windows, its light creeping across the floor and the sleeping men.
***
Hades woke with the knowledge it was time to return to the Land of the Dead. He accepted the offer of half a loaf and some cheese and a tankard of Odin’s mead, but refused to sit. He stood before the fire and ate alone. The hall grew dark. The Valkyries lit torches, stacked sleeping pallets in a corner and fed the fire with logs. The Wild Hunt made ready to go their separate ways. Hades thanked his host with a minimum of courtesy and walked out the carved doors to the stable. A boy directed him to the stall housing his stallion.
The big black horse was one of the few creatures Hades loved. He had no use for him in the Land of the Dead and boarded him in the Green World. The horse, like his master, was of uncertain temper and enormous strength, and suffered few to approach and none to ride him but Hades himself. Yet here, in the stables at Valhalla, he found the stallion being fondled and petted and enjoying it like a pampered lapdog. He was amazed and then outraged, drawing his black brows together in a scowl. He hadn’t thought again about last night’s passenger, but now remembered the cloaked figure he’d pulled up behind him early the night before. He’d only had one glimpse in the storm’s tumult, but this must be the same lad.
“What do you want here? Be off!”
(This was published with this essay.)
I love the way you mixed different mythologies into one story.
I'd have never thought to put Odin and Hades together, or would have I?
I put Aztec and Germanic gods in a pantheon.
Very nicely done.
This feels lovingly crafted, with an attention to scene and detail that is rare. Beautiful beginning to a story.