She rose early, a restless night,
ahead of the neighbors,
well before the sun lifted above
the horizon,
and stoked the stove back to life,
fire
from embers rekindled into flames, the
snap
of kindling catching hold and the
crack and scent
of oak and birch burning, recalling
the warmth
that they bring into this room that
is her home.
She placed a kettle there to heat,
setting the water to boil
to pour into an old yellowed mug to
steep an herbal tea,
her own blend fashioned from the
herbs she grew and dried
in the solitary life she chose for
herself, living here, alone.
Wrapping her robe tight
around her, its sash pulled snug, she felt
a shiver shaking
her, though the room was now comfortable and warm,
a feeling she
shrugged off; “it’s nothing,” she told herself.
As per her ritual,
she slowly removed the silk from around
the crystal ball
and took the tarot down from the shelf,
the deck and
crystal and the wisdom of the ages passed down
from her mother and
grandmother and the grandmothers
before them, down
through time and the ages, generations of women
chosen to pass down
wisdom, knowledge, and truth, the basis of our lives.
Her hands wrapped
around her mug of tea, steam rising
as she gazed into
the crystal, not for signs and symbols
or meanings, the
charlatan’s realm, but to see what might
show there from
deep within her, where wisdom dwelt
and truth grew. The
smooth surface fogged and the prismed
light reflected from
the lone candle that lit her room, and
the stars and
sparkles within seemed to pulse with the flickering
of the candle’s
flame in the breeze the drifted through.
From the deck of cards,
she drew five, turned each
and laid it down on
the table, a single row, the pictures
detailing a
heritage begun long before her time, generations
passing into
generations, driven from their lands or, restless,
moving on, settling
again, the stories growing and the truths
they bore. And the
cards and crystal, no more than cards
and crystal,
stories told over and over, the wisdom of the ages,
knowledge, truth,
passed from woman to woman; these she shared
with those who
would come to her, asking, willing to pay, those
in need of hope, of
reassurances, just an ear to listen or a voice
to listen to, songs
and stories she would share freely, taking their offerings
only because of her
own needs, this small place and sustenance,
for there was no
other in her life, for who would have her, an outcast,
a teller of
stories, a singer of songs, passing on traditions,
ritual, and a past readily
forgotten, the beginnings of time itself.
Each card turned
this day, this early morning,
cards seen many
times and the stories connected to them,
sat cold on the
table, flat and dull, reflecting nothing
though their sheen
had never dimmed over the years,
the Dreamer, the
Jester, the Lady of the Glen with her raven
hair dancing, the
goblet and the lance, reflecting a rich heritage
moving forward in
time, but as she touched each card, feeling
nothing but their
cold surface, a foreboding rose through her,
begun in the spleen
and up through her chest, her heart, and down
into her limbs, a
heaviness, an ache, and tingling traveling her veins,
that same
foreboding striking now as before when the shaman,
the seer Sayer, the
prophet of doom arrived at her home,
a sharp rap at her
door she opened to the one with his holy text
clutched tight, accusing
her, the word her mother never used
but warned her she
would hear, an evil word from evil men
who would not understand,
would never accept, would hold
over her,
condemning her, accusations made in the fear
they had wrapped
themselves in and finding no warmth.
And came again that
sharp rap on her door, as before, and
an urgent pounding,
the scuffle of heavy boots, and the cards,
the crystal revealed
nothing, no fears, no insights, no ill warning,
only the memory of
who she was, one in a long line of proud women
gifted with sight,
bearing the traditions, the wisdom of the ages,
knowledge and truth
since time began, before all remembering,
to be carried and
shared with a world, a village in need, but lacking
the power found
deep within themselves, powerless to bring it to bear.
And the voices
outside called to her, not her name
but that word, that
evil word she’d not heard but once before,
and now this same
man, fearing her, hiding behind his sacred text
clutched tight,
called out, “come, Witch, purveyor of evil, come out,”
and the chants of
the others rang loud, bound together as they were
by the fear of what
they could not understand, could not accept,
would not allow in
this village, those scared men forcing their way
into her home, the
wood splintering her door, an axe head forced through,
tearing it open,
and the Shaman, the Seer, the Prophet of Doom stepped
inside, he and his
hoard, grabbing at her and dragging her out
into the cold of
the morning, the faint light of morning growing, warming,
just beginning to
show herself. Behind her now, held tight in the Shaman’s
grasp, her wrists
hurting in the tightness, she heard the shattering
of glass, heavy
glass, and the unheard scream trapped in her throat, loud
in her ears, echoing
inside her head, and the silent scream of her crystal
smashed, deafening
to those attuned to it and to the stars and the sparkles
in the prismed
light reflected. A roar of voices rose from the crowd around her,
those sacred few,
and the air filled with smoke and flame and heat rising up
from what had once
been her home, an intense heat, searing, destroying everything
within, her mug of
tea, unfinished, and her herbs, the cards drawn from the deck
and the deck
itself, the Dreamer, the Jester, the Lady of the Glen with her raven hair
dancing, the goblet
and the lance, a rich heritage moving forward, turning black
and curling, turned
to ash in the morning light of a new day rising anew. No one
heard her cries, no
one would come, no rescue, their own fears, not of her
but of the crowd
cheering around her, their own fears of this fearful man,
powerless against
him and his evil, his sacred text clutched to his chest.
Her arm released
from the Shaman, Prophet of Doom, she collapsed onto the snow,
and, curling into
herself, let loose her tears, crying at the loss, all that she had, and
as each man walked
away, walked by her, he spat on her, kicked her, pushed her
deeper into the
snow, and laughed, smug in himself, as if he had defeated something
wild, something wicked,
some rabid animal of little worth, defeated her even,
leaving her lying
there in the snow, naked but for the robe spread out around her;
but the Wisdom of
the ages, her knowledge and the truth were not gone,
nor the crystal or
the cards, for in the bright sunshine, high now in the new day’s
light, they lay
whole and complete, sheltered in the silk she wrapped them in,
whole and complete
on the remains of the table where she had place them,
resurrected, as
wisdom, knowledge, and truth always are, always will be
against those who
fear them; she herself was not defeated,
nor the heritage to
which she bore witness, a rich heritage continuing.
A small child
appeared and quietly collected them for her, and unafraid, took
her hand in his;
without speaking, together they walked away, walked away
from a crumbled
body lying naked in the snow, a frozen corpse,
and away from the
village she loved, cared about, a village living in fear,
not of her, not of
the crystal and a deck of cards, but afraid of itself,
for it cannot
understand, cannot accept, truth and knowledge and wisdom,
that which we find deep
within ourselves, not from some magic book
or magic spell, nor
from some holy text we hide ourselves behind,
but from our
openness to the wisdom of the ages, passed down mother
to daughter, father
to son, generation to generation, the heritage of who we are,
traditions,
rituals, and the stories of our lives passed on, their warmth resurrected in
us.
