Chapter
Six
A FIRE SCENTED the air with juniper and cedar as the
twelve women sat on straw mats, their hair lit by the last rays of the
sun. Brigit threw a handful of dried herbs onto the fire. The aroma
of mountain and sea swirled upward in the smoke and curled around them.
Amidst the sound of pipes and the soft thump of a small drum, a trio
of older women entered the clearing. The song they played created a
haunting sense of timelessness. Maureen swayed where she sat, dizzy
from the darkness, the fire, and the scent of the air. A woman swirled
a gourd filled with beads so tiny they swished like the surf as she
moved it over the heads of the seated women. At Brigit's urging, all
twelve stood, joined hands and stepped slowly around the fire. Maureen
felt the world slip backward, sensed the wolves abroad in the night,
their eyes watching. The trees around her became part of a dense forest
covering the whole continent, mosses and ferns releasing their scent
into the air. Her breathing was deep and rhythmic as she swayed to the
beat of the drum, her hand in the hand of her sister.
A deep voice began to chant, a voice like Brigit's, but infused with
a rich darkness, dark as old blood. The women in the circle felt the
power of the earth through their feet, the power of their bodies through
the hands of the women at their side. The drum and pipes played faster,
and they moved like they were children again, loose-limbed and feeling
their bodies without shame. When the drum slowed, Maureen's mind fluttered
reluctantly back to the clearing, a bird stopped in mid-flight. Her
breathing was loud in the silence. Brigit stood near the fire, her shadow
flaring on the trees and wavering against the dark.
"We are all here for the same reason," Brigit began, as Maureen
sat closer to Lisa. "We come to celebrate one of the most joyous
and holy times for women. In years lost in the past, it was called the
blood-wisdom time. Women welcomed the pooling of their blood inward.
They didn't fear it as some of you do." She looked around the group,
holding the eyes of each woman. "No longer do we flow only outward
to nurture others. We need our strength to nurture ourselves. Then we
can pass this knowing on to younger women."
Maureen felt Lisa's shoulder lean into hers, and she thought of Gabi,
a world away in Gainesville. Brigit's strong voice rose and fell around
the fire, drifting into her ears on the scented smoke. Maureen felt
the beginning of the familiar hot flash rising up her chest, bathing
her face. Brigit turned toward her.
"The heat all of you feel is symbolic of the burning out of the
container, the strengthening of the vessel. Don't fight it," she
urged, her voice rising. "Become part of the heat."
The muffled beat of the drum began again and Brigit swayed slowly back
and forth, her voice falling into the rhythm of the storyteller.
"I have a tale to tell," she began, the fire painting her
face the color of a winter sunset. "It's a tale of courage for
all of us who are afraid."
The sound of the wind skimmed over the small drum and the rain drifted
inside the gourd as Brigit's voice dropped lower. Maureen could feel
her skin tighten, the small hairs on her neck stirring.
"This story was told by our ancestors to their daughters and from
them to their daughters, until, for a brief time, the tale was lost."
Brigit sank to the ground, closed her eyes and raised her face to the
dark sky. In a voice that carried to each ear, she began to tell the
legend of Flamia.
***
In the
time before time, the oldest daughter of the clan of Cherok was offered
for sacrifice by her father. This choice would elevate him in the Council
of Men. His wife turned her back as the sign was carved into the ankle
of her daughter, Flamia. She smeared her face with ashes and covered
her ears to the cries. From that day on, her voice did not answer to
her daughter.
Early one morning, on a day when the sun had refused to reveal itself
and the sea met its twin in the flat, grey sky, Flamia was taken in
a boat by her father to be left on the island where the god lived. As
the day wore on, Cherok strained to keep going, his aging body streaked
with sweat, his breath coming in little spurts. Flamia begged him to
change his mind, take her back to the village, but his flat eyes looked
right through her. Late in that strange pewter-colored day, they arrived
at an island and went ashore for water. Cherok handed his daughter a
bowl and pointed toward some high dunes. As she went toward them, a
howling arose from the nearby forest that seemed to come from the bowels
of Mother Earth herself. Flamia turned, her eyes wide like those painted
on the shields of the warriors. She saw her father, rowing away.
She threw herself into the water and swam after him, her arms making
jagged splashes as she frantically chased the boat. She reached it and
grabbed hold as the shrieking and wailing pierced her ears. Her father
struggled to pull away from the island, his eyes wild, his face white
as the death hag. Still, Flamia hung on, even as the boat reached the
swells beyond the reef. Then, her father grabbed at his small ax. He
swung it high and chopped down at his daughter's fingers, severing each
one. They fell into the water, where they turned into little florescent
fish that swam beneath the boat and disappeared. Cherok saw none of
this. All he could think of was escaping the clutches of the island
and getting home. Even then, Flamia did not stop. As the moans from
the island carried across the water, she hung on with her bleeding palms,
pleading for her father's mercy. Again, his dull ax hammered downward,
severing her hands at the wrists. Her palms tumbled over and over, transforming
into flat fish that floated in the grey sea like opalescent porcelain
bowls.
As Flamia fell away from the boat, her blood flowed down to the shelf
surrounding the island, forming the most delicate of pink coral. Her
father rowed with all his remaining strength into the open sea. By morning
he was back in the village, all trace of his daughter washed away in
an early morning rain. The village prospered that year. A ceremony was
held to honor the sacrifice of their eldest child by Flamia's father
and mother.
In exactly one year, less a week, Flamia's two sisters were out fishing
for their father's dinner. They didn't have their minds on their task,
but had managed to catch a few fish. The eldest sister, Gala, was to
be given to the god on the coming full moon. The sisters had become
so close after the loss of Flamia, that they could not believe what
was soon to happen. Never before had a family sacrificed more than one
daughter. Their father was going to be the next chief because of this.
Their mother had turned her face to the wall of their hut and had not
spoken since the announcement was made, one month earlier. The sisters
did not question, for it was as it had been all their lives and forever
before.
The soft purples of twilight touched the waters. The youngest sister
wrapped their fish in wet palm leaves. Suddenly, the water around them
swirled into sucking pools and wild winds appeared from nowhere, pushing
their boat further into the sea and away from their village. All they
could do was hold on, each hidden from the other in solid sheets of
black rain that slammed closed their eyes. As suddenly as it began,
the storm ended. The sisters saw that each was safe, though the clothing
was torn from their backs and the hair matted to their heads.
Across the now calm waters, the nearly full moon rose, blood red and
close enough to touch. Just at that precise moment, the boat grounded
itself. Growls and moans of torment erupted from the nearby trees, tearing
the silence. The sisters tried to push the boat back into the water,
but it was stuck tight. They were so tired. As they clung together,
the youngest saw a hut down the beach. She suggested they offer their
fish to whoever was in the forest and run for the hut while he ate.
Without waiting for an answer, she stepped from the boat and laid the
fish on the shore. As she did, her eyes locked onto the empty eye sockets
of a skeleton laying there.
All who tell this tale agree that they could not have recognized the
skeleton as their sister, Flamia. Her flesh was long gone from her bones,
her eyes eaten out by the fish, her heart and liver the diet of crabs
and other scavengers. Little sea creatures had attached themselves to
her bones and her long flowing hair. They were luminous in the moon's
light, like pearls and opals. The sisters were so afraid. They were
frozen in that spot, holding tightly to each other. At their feet, this
fearsome pile of bones. In the forest, the raving beast. Then, a strange
thing happened. Gala felt her heart ache with pain for the skeleton
laying on the dark sand. She saw the arms ending at the wrists and cried
aloud. She couldn't imagine who would do such a terrible thing.
The yellow eyes of the beast peered at them as he roamed the edge of
the wood, but he made no move to come closer. And then Gala knew the
bones of the woman protected them. She picked her up, the long sparkling
hair dragging over one arm, the leg bones dangling over the other. The
youngest retrieved their fish, and slowly they made their way down the
beach. The moon lit their path as she slid higher and higher in the
sky, leaving a highway for them to follow.
When they reached the hut, Gala sucked in her breath and stumbled, nearly
dropping Flamia. Over the door she saw the sign that was carved into
her ankle. The beast who roared from the trees was her destiny. She
laid her burden down inside the door, the bones clattering and clinking
on the packed dirt floor. The moon shone in, and she saw the faint scratches
on the ankle bone of the woman. They matched hers! Here was one who
had escaped, but at what price? Her tears fell on the water-smoothed
bones of Flamia's cheek. The youngest sister stood in the door, hesitating,
until the roar of the beast shook the stoop and she flew inside, slamming
the door behind her. In the corner lay an animal skin, and she helped
lay Flamia on it, covering her against the chill night air.
Gala struck her flint, flaring light on a fireplace filled with dry
wood. When the flames were strong, she lay the fish across the wood.
As the scent went up the chimney, the cries of the beast turned to whimpers.
The youngest went to the door and listened. She heard the trickling
of water and the strange, melancholy cries from the forest. She filled
shells with water while Gala watched over the bones of Flamia, laying
them out in a seemly fashion. Then she placed the small fish and the
fish shaped like porcelain bowls on palm fans.
After they had eaten, Gala said a prayer to the gods over Flamia, her
tears dropping on the fragile bones of the chest just over where her
heart would be. For a moment, she thought there was flesh on the cheeks
where her tears had fallen earlier, but a shadow passed over the moon
and the vision was gone. The younger sister left a plate of fish and
some water next to Flamia as an offering. Her tears splashed onto the
arm bones of the woman. For a moment, she thought she saw the rose of
flesh on her chest, but a cloud passed in front of the moon and she
knew it was her imagination. Then she laid a flower where Flamia's arm
ended at the wrist, and her heart ached as her abundant tears washed
over the hip bones and leg bones cradled in the soft fur. The sisters
agreed that beast or no beast, in the morning they would give her a
proper burial. They lay down together in the corner, keeping each other
warm with their young bodies as the fire died.
They slept the sleep of exhaustion and innocence.
Moments later, Flamia opened her mouth. She sang a sad, crooning song
that reached deep into the dreams of the sisters. Tears came to their
eyes, though they didn't waken. As she sang, more flesh began to curve
her form, her hips becoming lush and broad, her belly round and full,
her breasts rising like the moon from the sea. The flashing opals became
the blue-green of her eyes. Soft lips formed over the smooth ivory of
her teeth. She sat up and greedily drank the water they had left. Then
she ate the fish. As she did, the palms of her hands appeared below
her wrists, sweetly curved. One by one, her graceful fingers grew, as
supple and pink as a newly born child's. By the time the sun rose again,
Flamia slept as herself for the first time in nearly a year.
The sisters awoke to the sound of birds and saw Flamia asleep on the
skins, her cheeks a healthy pink, her hair shining in the sun's light.
They cried aloud with joy as they recognized her. Flamia awoke. She
hugged them and touched their skin with her restored hands. Then, haltingly,
she told them her story, the story of their father's betrayal. Her sisters
listened, eyes wide with horror. When she finished, Gala told her the
village had been safe and prosperous this whole year. Her father said
it was because of the sacrifice of Flamia to the beast. Now they knew
the terrible thing their father had done, the lies he had told. And
yet, he had offered another in his greed.
Flamia snorted in anger. How foolish they all were! They must make sure
this didn't happen to anyone, ever again. Then, despite the fearful
protest of her sisters, Flamia left them in the hut and went into the
woods with their one remaining piece of fish. They heard her soft singing
and the growls of the beast throughout the day. They prayed and sang
songs for Flamia's safety. That night, just a bit of the golden light
of the moon was left behind when Flamia left the woods. The huge beast
walked at her heels. His shaggy head swung from side to side as he looked
fearfully at the sea, but he continued to follow her.
Flamia, her sisters, and the beast lived on the island until their deaths,
the beast having grown quite fond of fish and fruit. Every year, a new
girl joined them, and they danced in the light of the moon. They raised
flowers and vegetables, and harvested the unusual fish found only in
that sea, the fish shaped like slender fingers and curved palms. They
kept the old boat hidden behind the wellhouse, just in case.
***
The
drumming stopped and in the hush of the woods only a far off owl could
be heard. Brigit opened her eyes. "Women used to know these things.
Until you have faced death, until you have lost everything, you cannot
know life." Maureen heard murmurs of assent all around. "We
all live on the surface," Brigit continued. "We fear going
into the unknown, the down under where we will find ourselves by losing
ourselves. Until Flamia faced the truth, the nature of her father and
her own desires, she could not live."
As she spoke, several women came into the light of the fire, their red
robes glowing. "All of us have been where you are,” Brigit
said. She sat down behind Maureen. The others, except for one tall elegant
figure, sat behind the other women.
"I, too, was lost in the depths like Flamia," the tall woman
said. "I needed to face what I had been avoiding. In my case, it
was me." She turned her face toward the fire. A shiver ran around
the group as they saw the scar tissue layered around her mouth and eyes.
She turned back toward them. "I was so afraid of getting old! I
spent everything I earned trying to stay young. I had surgery on my
face, my breasts, my thighs. I could always find doctors willing to
operate, but the choice was mine. After my second eye operation, my
system started protecting my eyes with layers of new tissue. The more
surgeries I had, the worse it got. I stopped going out in public. It
took me a long time to face myself." She smiled. "But I have,
and I didn't do it alone."
Another woman told of the fear she experienced after her husband's death,
her desire to take her life to be with him because she didn't know who
she was without him. Others described battles with cancer, fear for
their children on drugs and their feelings of responsibility, the rejection
of divorce in middle age. Then Brigit stood again. The drumming floated
toward the fire, the soft whoosh of surf and trees building in the background.
Brigit lifted her arms over her head and her gown slid down and pooled
at her feet. A sound like winter wind moaned in the circle as the fire
licked the scars where her breasts had been and flamed on the sickle-shaped
gash below her belly. Slowly she moved, the grace of her body and the
flickering fire turning her scars into painted ritual markings. Brigit
danced the story of Flamia, going down, and then lifting herself, telling
the story of her mastectomy. Maureen saw the knife, felt its edge, the
parts of Brigit's body dropping into metal containers. One by one the
other women joined her, bodies of every shape and size, scarred and
changed by childbirth, beautiful in the firelight. Maureen wept. She
felt as old as time and as young as a new flower. She was aware of every
part of her self in a joyous recognition. She could have danced forever,
but the drums stopped as women began to drop out, some of them sitting
quietly holding the woman nearest to them. Brigit put on her gown and
sat down, sweat glistening on her face.
"I
have something to say," Lisa whispered, her hand holding tight
to Maureen's. Her hand trembled and then Maureen could feel her gather
herself together. "My sister went through the worst thing a woman
can go through---her child died before she did. It's a thing you never
expect, like a sin against nature. Then, I went through the worst thing
a sister can go through---being unable to help. I loved Dylan, my godchild."
She took a deep breath. "I loved him with all my heart and I love
Maureen, but I couldn't get through. She shut all of us out and went
where no one could touch her, and she took Dylan with her."
Maureen felt tremors shake her, felt her bones crack and her muscles
rearrange themselves. A fist clenched where her heart was and she couldn't
catch her breath. Lisa just held on tighter and continued to speak.
"Maureen and I are going through menopause at the same time, but
we were going through it alone. She had given birth to her three children.
I assumed she'd just be glad to have all of this over with. I couldn't
tell her about my grief. How could she possibly understand how I felt
knowing I would never have a child?"
"Oh, Lisa." Maureen's anguished voice floated on the breeze.
"That was until tonight. Now I think I know that the same applies
to all of us. We hold everything down deep and only visit it by ourselves.
We turn inward or we wall up our insides and turn outward with this
half-a-woman face. It's the same even if we're sisters and mothers,
like the mother in Brigit’s story turning her face to the wall."
"Yes, yes, it’s true," voices chimed in from all sides.
"That's all I want to say, I think," Lisa said, looking at
Maureen. They held each other, tears mingling on their cheeks..
"I think that's enough for tonight," Brigit said quietly.
She stood and folded her mat. "Each of you will be spending the
night in a tent with your partner," she began.
Questions flowed from around the fire. Brigit held up her hand. "Everything
you need will be provided."
Maureen remembered the forms she had filled out asking everything from
what she slept in, to any medications or dietary needs. She gave Lisa
a small wave and followed Brigit into the woods. Near a quiet stream,
a white tent nestled in a hollow. The night was quiet, like a church
at midday. Only an occasional rustle in the grass broke the silence.
Brigit held back the tent flap and Maureen saw sleeping bags on the
ground, her favorite nightgown folded on one.
"Is there a bathroom?"
Brigit handed her a roll of tissue and pointed into the woods. Maureen
felt foolish, like she had broken some kind of spell by her need. When
she came back, the woods dense and dark in the hours just before dawn,
Brigit was sitting cross-legged on her mat, eating an apricot, a thick
blanket wrapped around her. Maureen put on her gown and sat quietly.
Brigit gestured to the fruit, nuts, and water sitting on a small camp
table. "The ceremony takes a lot of energy. Please, help yourself."
She studied Maureen as she ate, the dim candlelight flickering off the
sides of the tent.
"I want you to know that we draw lots for whom we will guide,"
she said, looking closely at Maureen. "When I drew you, I told
the group it might be a conflict since you have a past with Stephen."
Maureen drew back, and Brigit immediately reached out to her.
"I was just worried that there might be something you wanted to
share that you would feel hesitant about, since I know Stephen. Anyway,
the group said there could be a specific reason why I did get you in
the draw."
She wiped the apricot juice from her fingers and snuggled deeper into
the blanket. Maureen waited expectantly.
"Is there anything you'd like to ask me?"
Maureen shook her head. She should have been tired, but she buzzed with
energy.
Brigit opened a pouch and laid strange looking leaves in piles on the
table. For the next hour she showed Maureen how to use herbs for the
symptoms of menopause.
"Are any of these good for calming down feelings?" Maureen
began, then stuttered to a stop. "I mean, well, you know. Sexual
feelings?"
"Why would you want to do that?" Brigit asked. She looked
amazed at the question.
Maureen shifted uncomfortably. "I can't explain it. It's like I'm
on ‘ready’ all the time." She felt the heat warm her
neck. "I feel things I never felt when I was younger. Stronger
feelings." She shrugged, her palms up. "I just can't explain."
"You just did. What's the problem with all of that?"
"My husband, Jason? All of the sudden, he just couldn't care less."
Maureen told her, haltingly, about her last encounter with Jason.
"It
sounds to me like you don't need to turn yourself off. Jason needs to
get some help."
Maureen shook her head. "Jason thinks he's fine. He says it’s
my problem. He wouldn't even consider counseling."
"Maybe you've done all you can," Brigit suggested softly.
"Would you give up on Stephen?"
"You have the wrong idea about Stephen and me, Maureen. We're friends
and associates. Stephen has someone else," she added, looking strangely
at Maureen as if just putting her finger on something. "Someone
none of us around here has ever met. I do know he's never married."
Maureen didn't know what to say.
Brigit turned down the blanket on her sleeping bag. "I think this
takes more time than we have right now. Let's sleep on it and talk about
it tomorrow."
Maureen rolled and turned, her body lit up like a torch, her mind roiling
with the things she had heard and seen.
She felt Brigit's hands on her back. "Just relax. I'll give you
a massage to help you sleep." Her hands felt like small animals,
soft and yet strong underneath.
"You're getting tomorrow's lesson on massage early."
"I tried my usual meditation," Maureen said, relaxing under
the gentling of Brigit's hands. "But I can't seem to clear my mind
with so many things to think about."
"Have you ever tried using your animal guide?"
“I’ve
read something about it, but it sounds so ‘new agey.’ Just
taking yoga and learning to meditate was far out for me. I have a hard
time concentrating."
“None of this is far out for you, Maureen. You could lead all
of us if you’d let go.”
She laughed as Maureen turned rigid under her hands. "Okay, let’s
just try a little experiment." She finished massaging Maureen's
feet with a cream that smelled of fresh mint.
"Oh," Maureen sighed. "That was heavenly."
"Just relax. You came all this way. You might as well trust me.
If you can’t do it, you can’t. First, you have to find out
who your spirit guide is. I'll send you off to sleep with a spirit guide
meditation. When the guide comes to you, just let it lead."
Maureen was nearly asleep already, and could barely nod. Brigit told
her how to think about the animal world and ask for what she needed.
"Everyone has an affinity to one particular animal. Everyone. From
the Celts to the American Indians, all the people know we have a connection
to the animal world."
Maureen didn't hear the rest of the instructions. She was already dreaming
herself walking on the beach. In her dream, Maureen was coming from
behind the rocks near the sea when she saw something at the water's
edge. It was a beautiful woman with long brown hair and dark skin, smooth
and sleek. As Maureen moved closer, she could see that the woman looked
sad as she leaned out over the water, and there was a strange, mournful
sound in the air. Maureen felt something in her hands, and looked down.
She was holding a bronze colored pelt so soft it seemed to nestle in
her palms like a kitten. She had found it in the rocks, but she knew
that it belonged to this woman. She went down onto the beach and held
it out, calling to the woman until she turned. The sun sparkled off
the tears on the lashes of her huge brown eyes. She saw the skin, and
held out her hands to Maureen, the sadness deepening on her face.
"Why are you crying?" Maureen asked, her voice hollow in the
dream.
"I left my children behind in the sea when I became human. They
are calling me. Can’t you hear them?”
Maureen listened. She heard mournful music coming across the sea. It
was so human, she could feel her heart breaking.
“I have been gone too long. They need me."
Maureen went closer, and saw that the woman's skin was dry and beginning
to peel off of her in long strips. She handed her the skin and watched
as she put it on. As soon as the woman pulled the skin up her legs,
she began to change. She walked out into the water as she smoothed the
skin over her head, the long hair gone, the body falling forward into
the sea. As she dove under the waves, a tail flipping into the air,
two children came running down the beach calling for their mother. They
cried so long and hard, their tears swirled around Maureen's feet, and
then she felt their hands clutching at her legs. She heard the seal-woman
crying as she swam out to her other children
©
Therèse Amrhein Tappouni, 2005
This book can be purchased by
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