The Temple of Cybele

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This month, we continue with more of Verda Smedley's marvelous novel, "Ancestral Airs"...

Part I: The Seedbearers

Chapter 2 (conclusion)

Before my third initiation I entered into the study of all the burial practices and the spirit handling that went with them. Bodies were often placed fetally in oval wombs in caves or subterranean chambers flanked by great pillars of stone or wood, the walls of which bore the symbols of the clan. Deer antlers embraced human bones and were covered with copious amounts of the red clay powder. Plants and animals were occasionally placed on platforms and some graves were covered with great slabs of stone on top of which were burned these sacred elements. Most were interred with figurines of the Earth Mother, standing silently, hands at her side, without breasts. An enormous triangle was carved into her middle signifying the expectation of rebirth. She was frequently molded from pale clay or carved from bone or marble and could be found alone or standing with two companions. The Earth Mother often had the black sockets of death and could appear as a bird or some other creature. Others buried their dead near a rock or tree, in which the departed would come to live, the arrangement allowing the clan ready access to its Ancestors. In exchange for this convenience the spirits were fed with ritual precision. Beyond the subtle differences, many clans except Death Clans first entombed the heads in jars or niches in their burial places leaving the body outside of the sepulcher to be devoured by the Flesh Eaters. On the last day of the year the purified bones were gathered and placed inside the grave. Death Clans didn’t decapitate or wait to dispose of their relatives’ remains. At the end of any given year they could have long passed into oblivion leaving no one to close the circle.

I spent long summers learning the plants that allayed the little deaths. I became a reliable expert in treating convulsions, fainting, unconsciousness, even paralysis, afflictions attributed to living in such a way as to have invited those spirits to come and reside in you. I also served an apprenticeship with the Twilight Women, particularly Darkling Light, to hone the dreamer still trapped inside me.

I took more scars. Resigned but well prepared I had every intention of serving my people in this capacity indefinitely and did so for a while. In spite of my opportunistic nature, that tender heart that was born at my first greihound hunt came to govern my handling of death large and small. I actually found myself saddened when the Greihound conscripted me to their fourth and final purpose. Genuinely sorry, I left my post supposedly to serve something more profound. Perhaps the Greihound elders took me back to the caves because I suffered too deeply from the pain of others, unable to sustain my objectivity. It drove me to scarify again and again to relieve it. Somehow that transcendence would engulf me, destroy me, and re-empower me after which I could return to the work I was given to do. My back was covered from the nape of my neck to my tailbone with the script of my people. Anyone could read it. The excess had become suspiciously aberrant and I suppose the Greihound elders came to throw a net over me.

I have to admit when they showed up I was truly angry. My body had been wrecked from running, the damage creeping into my middle age like the fog that worked its way up the river valley. My soul was nearly played out from doctoring death and madness, from the difficult journeys to the underworld and back, from soothing the loved ones left behind. What I really wanted was for all of it to be done. “Yes,” they said, “You have a good heart and a good mind.”

My predecessor was worn out and wanted to abdicate his position directly to me. That was highly unusual. Apparently Old Dog Dreaming Woman was tired too but willing to remain long enough to fine-tune my dreaming skills.

I didn’t want to be the ranking Greihound Dreamer. I wanted to sit with the Crones at the Showoff Dance. At that event I would be required to dance my weary body into the ground if I acceded. As retired I could go off with anyone who would have me. I didn’t want to show off what was left of my virility to then have to wait months to ritually mount the few who might choose the Greihound Death Spasm. No, I didn’t want anymore.

The old men waited quietly. As I paced, I ranted bitterly. They listened patiently to my outpouring knowing that in doing so their power alone would wear me down. And eventually it did. I was ready to leave at sunrise for an apprenticeship that would lead me into a world from which there was no return: the dreamtime.

The Life Blood of my people seeped from a solid rock in the snowy high country to the south. Joining with her on her descent were inexhaustible trickles of melting snow that cascaded to the ravine below. Transformed into a stream that rushed to form a river, she flowed north a hundred miles to the ocean. The villages of our people were dispersed along her entire length.

The Oak clan of my mother and the amalgamation of which it was a part were situated in the thick, acidic woods of the Old Granite Range below the alpine meadows. Forest swept north and west toward the ocean. Death Clan territories were two days south of this alliance above the snow line, the Greihound den within the home range of the wild pack. The Twilight Women camped in the gorge below and served to warn that beyond men became animals and aimless wanderers became prey.

The trail from the women’s camp climbed from the gentle forest floor to the rugged terrain of the caves by means of a narrow, precarious land bridge, the south edge of which plunged into a chasm. The upper trail was steep, loose rock and rubble composed most of its surface. A massive outcropping at the tree line marked the final ascent to the ledge and our den where greihound, human and wild, spent sunny days spellstruck by the whispering leaders that appeared like a dark, green fog below us. At sunset we entered the womb of the dreamtime and the wild pack left for rituals of its own.

In our two-chambered sanctum we were reborn into the world of the Ancient Ones. The first recess was large and high-vaulted. Two basalt columns reached into a ceiling that was blackened from the never-ending winters of habitation since our emergence out of the ice. Dreamlodges were pitched according to propensities, Stargazers in the north, Artists in the east, Spirit Handlers in the south and Dreamers in the west facing the threshold of the second cavity. The stories of our clan were depicted in the symbols of the rapture on the walls of that alcove. Enshrined were the gifts of bones, skulls, antlers, skins and feathers from the clans who lived in the ether with us or insured our safe birth into it. For six months we stood guard over the snowbound spirits of our people asleep in the Winter Wait.

The ice spirits had reigned with brutal cold late into the season and we were trammeled in our cave. It was two months beyond vernal equinox and ten days past our anxiously awaited departure. Even the expectant nature of Snow Rose failed to lift our heavy hearts. Silent and miserable, there was little comfort in knowing that the weather would yield under the relentless pressure of spring.

When the storm broke the snow melted quickly from the ledge and the precarious rocky trail that led to the ravine. With it came the genuine warmth of the season. I suspect our judgment was clouded by the excitement to go home and we should have waited for the path to solidify again. Impatiently we never the less prepared to leave anyway.

Tunics and leggings made of heavy furs, along with gloves, hats, fur-lined boots, and snowshoes were carefully inspected and repaired if necessary. Out on the ledge punky oak and birch smoldered, rising heavily to saturate our winter clothes. They were then tightly rolled and stashed in the dark recesses of the cave. A sack of coals from our last ceremonial fire was put away along with an old drill and bow, and some chunks of dried tinder fungus. When we returned the following winter our first fire would be lit with them.

Each man checked the rest of his personal things. Medicine bags, tokens, other precious things protected us against vulnerability. Lightweight buckskin leggings were pulled on and tied to a thin belt over which hung our loincloths. Footgear made of hide was packed with grass and medicine plants. Some chose cloudberry leaves for protection or wormwood for strength, others used willow to prevent their feet from becoming sore or tired. The excess length of our leggings was tucked into our boots before they were laced and tied. Bands wrapped just below the knee, most of them highly decorated, kept our leggings snug. Lightweight vestments went next with a strong belt to which was sewn a pouch. These buckskin shirts had long, loose sleeves and were open and overlapping in the front. Pulling our arms out of the sleeves allowed the tunic to drop below the belt when we became too hot.

Everyone had similar things in their pouches. Chunks of charcoal, some tinder, a drill, and a few pieces of flint were items that made it easy to start a fire anywhere. We each carried a bone needle, a coil of cord, an extra bowstring, dressings and other things of that nature.

Our dreamlodges were unhooked from their leaning posts and carefully folded into a strip. The rod was then pulled out of the ground and laid with a thick leather ligature at one end. They were tightly rolled together and tied. The loose ends of the strap were crossed over our chests and secured. Knives and small axes were slipped through our belts. Last came our bows and quivers. Longbow and Thorn Arrow put the fire away and gave the rocks back to the mountain. They brought up the trail behind us and scattered our footprints into the dust. Prayers were made and we left.

The load even when tightly secured was substantial. The weight pushed our tenuous downhill steps forcefully forward, bringing all our attention to bear on the slick, steep passage. As we reached the land bridge a presence pierced the quietude. Alert to its prophetic voice, we stopped and listened intently. When I turned away from the sound I saw Snow Rose drifting like a feather into the chasm. I was confounded by the illusion that she floated gently back and forth before crashing violently against the rocks below all in an instant. We stood paralyzed with disbelief. Just like that her spirit was gone. Snow Rose was waiting for us at our burial cave, sitting comfortably with our Ancestors.

We tested our footing and lowered our heavy gear to the ground, profoundly disoriented yet suddenly pressed into a change of plans. Thorn Arrow hurried to the camp of the Twilight Women, who were waiting for us to join them for the hike back to the villages. Their enthusiasm to go home, like ours, was dissipated the moment Snow Rose burst into the other world. Blue Ice and Bird Chant took off to tell the other Death Clans. We knew that the Raven, Owl and Eagle had not left the caves yet. But the Lynx, Badger and Wolf, although on their way, had already turned back, knowing.

The caldera was the place of emergence for Stargazers and they knew every feature of its terrain. Shadow Glass led Longbow and me, and we descended into its depths. He knew by heart the secret path worn into the rocks from the declination of countless predecessors. Every measure required pause and deliberation.

When we finally reached Snow Rose we could clearly see that she was broken in many places. We dusted her with red ochre, placed her body on a deerskin robe and wrapped her in it tightly. Each of us was trembling as though we could still cause her pain. Withdrawing her from the chasmal bowl was a treacherous undertaking every few steps necessitating that we stop from the strenuous expense. Reaching the rim and clawing our way over it was nearly an insurmountable challenge. We set Snow Rose down gently and collapsed. The old men waiting there smudged us off and gave us water.

The switchback north followed a small stream that led us toward our tomb. Breaks in the canopy allowed sunlight to touch tangles of herbs growing along the banks. The rich fragrance of their flowers and pungent leaves impregnated the damp stillness. In the deep shade roots and rocks glistened, thick with shining club moss and wolf lichen. These layers were broken here and there by the hooves of thirsty game. Oak fern and rannoch rush grew in the wet, spongy places. Old oak trees had given way to thickets of bilberry. The path continued up through the forest to the barren snow line once again and the final scramble to the crypt. When we arrived Death Clans were plied into preparation and the Twilight Women were singing wailfully. Snow Rose had to be ready by sunset.

Everyone was quiet. The loss of the young was deeply mourned. It weighed heavily on the elders. They knew that eventually the old clans would leave one by one never to return. Long ago there were many Death Clan members. So rich in blood and diversity it was believed they would continue forever, virile and strong. But as with all things in nature, they had dwindled to a few members each and even fewer elders. For the Greihound there remained a respectable number of Prayer Runners, most of whom would retire after arduous service and not petition to spend the rest of their lives dealing with death or the dreamtime. Other Death Clans were even more fallen, with only a handful of old men and a few middle-aged apprentices left to them.

Thorn Arrow set up my dreamlodge while others collected wood. Purifying birch, strengthening oak, hot whitethorn and bright burning bearberry were brought up for the ritual. A large heap of grass was gathered and brought to the ledge as well. The songs started up.

Snow Rose was carefully unwrapped with prayers and laid to rest on the soft mound. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her fingers wrapped around bundles of herbs and plumes. They smoothed her hair, gently wiped away traces of blood from her face and painted her up. The songs continued.

Owl Clan medicine men punctured her lifeless body with dedicated precision. Dark blood oozed thick and sweet, filling the air with its scent. Many rounds were sung into the night, imploring the Flesh Eaters to come and free her of her body. At first light they flew in to bless our magic.

Ravens squawked from the treetops, flapping from limb to limb, cackling expectantly. Eagles floated in aloof circles resisting for as long as possible the predatory force that would drive them ultimately to the blood. The Flesh Eaters that moved in slowly, almost timidly, swooped onto the ledge and hopped up to Snow Rose. Cocking their heads with curiosity, they assessed among themselves their secret famine. The hesitant sampling exploded into a violent frenzy, beaks and talons ripping away her flesh. They moved in a single, writhing mass, attacking her, attacking each other, screaming. It was magnificent and appalling. I was glad she had abandoned her body before it was given over to their feast, consumed in glutinous fury in moments, the sacrament scattering her broken bones.

I stood up slowly on legs numb from stillness, having been crushed under my own weight all night. The crippling pain in my tired body spread into my head with rasping distraction. Stiff and uncertain I reassembled her remains and the bloody grass, encased them in wood and set the sacred mound ablaze. When the fire had taken care of her and her purified bones were cool enough to touch, I placed them in our tomb with the others that had gone before her. Some of the Old Dogs I had actually known. Evoking their names I paused to remember what they had given me. But the reliquiae that had fallen to dust I knew only as the Ancient Ones whose distant dreamtime was the secret well from which I had been sprung.

I sat and carved three crude images of the Earth Mother and placed them among Snow Rose’s bones, contained within a circle of antlers. Last came handfuls of red ochre and white clay powder, the blood of life and the dust of the spirit. The songs and prayers were sustained.

I moved around the chamber slowly, carefully inspecting each ancestral heap. Spirits often visited burial sites, poking around and moving the relics here and there. I crouched down gently restoring each lustral treasure to its chosen place with a sprinkle of red clay. They blessed me with sighs of relief and disappeared into the ether. When the songs were finished I emerged from the tomb. Everyone collected their gear and headed out for home while Thorn Arrow stayed to help me finish the magic for which we were the solitary handlers.

He built the next fire while I walked around until sunset, collecting my courage for the next phase. I had lived in the illuminance most of my life but was still unnerved by the expectation of giving myself over to it. I paced off the anxiety, breaking under the agonizing scrutiny of my ancestors. Desultory, I avoided entry into my lodge for as long as possible but finally crawled in.

The shade of Snow Rose flitted around the ledge urging me on with rustlings in the grass, pebbles falling seemingly from nowhere and melodies of unknown birds. The sweetness of the smoke washed over me and I felt the stir of her inside my chest. Conjoined, as though she was my own flesh we wafted in our last journey together.

But the blood of my canine father, rising hot and violent in my veins, would not be denied, crushing me with a force so intense I thought my heart would split my chest. I fought to suppress the rigid pain, inhaling deeply through it and the trembling sweat that overtook me. The Greihound burst nose first from the back of my head rupturing into the other world.

Transformed, I spotted Snow Rose and ran to her with insane silliness, whining, yapping and wiggling circles around her. As she knelt nuzzling me I covered her hands and face with wet kisses and she giggled delightfully. She spoke of the depths of her love for me and the regret that she had been too new, too fresh; an innocence that would have been destroyed if it had reached into my ancient struggle. She clung to me when the thread of her words ran out until the pull to continue captured my attention.

I guided her down the path that joined up with the Infinite Present. It was short and straight through sun-speckled groves, and led to a meadow filled with light so vivid even my old soul couldn’t cast a shadow. As I departed ancestral airs hidden in surrounding woods, rocks and trees embraced her with ecstatic abandon, drawing her easily into their realm and out of mine.

I sprinted back up the trail thinking how different the journey of Snow Rose had been from that of Old Dog Dreaming Woman. That old bitch had nearly killed me. My self-involvement had turned into hopeless confusion on her dark and convoluted passage. My flesh was set on fire by the nettle and bleeding profusely from a thousand hawthorn snags. I was more than glad to leave her behind but roamed around that maze for days without a clue how to return to the living. When I spotted the opening I had so desperately sought and lunged for it, the old woman pounced on me out of nowhere. High pitched yelping combined with snapping panic further complicated freeing myself from her lethal grip. She clung tenaciously to my back legs and I had to claw my way to that threshold with her formidable bulk hanging on me. When reached, she released me and I plunged through it, glancing back briefly to make certain she had remained on the other side. She was humming, self-satisfied and brushing herself off, pausing to look up at me with a chilling stare. My assumed arrogance was nothing more than the failed masquerade of the sober clarity I needed for true wisdom.

When I awakened the fire had fallen to scattered fluff. Thorn Arrow brought me water and dug into our meager provisions for food. He heated some rocks, gingerly placed them in a pouch of water and dropped in the last of the dried dewberries. We had no honey. Safely secreted in a hole he found the dried deer meat I desperately needed to quell the tremors of my fast. It was tightly wrapped in a piece of buckskin and dressed with willow leaves, they helping to deter the curiosity of hungry animals. With the food came the grounding and with the grounding came the impact of the crisis set into motion by the death of Snow Rose. No other Greihound woman was waiting to take her place.

We packed our belongings and dragged them to the head of the trail that would lead us back to the vital. After gathering the remaining wood and spent grass we incinerated it. As it burned, we returned the rocks to the mountain. When the fire was spent Thorn Arrow scattered the ash and all our footprints into the dust. Not a trace was left on the ledge of our life or her death.

We picked up our gear and started down the path that led to home. The jagged barren rocks of the cave site gave way again to the dense and dark evergreen range that was filled with an eerie stillness that was never disturbed by the wind. Occasionally shafts of light pushed their way through the impenetrable treetops. In the sanctitude the deer and boar had taught us how to live inviolable lives. Born out of this friendship was an existence no longer governed by the fear of hunger. We knelt to make prayers and left an offering of gratitude from our indebted spirits.

It was our custom to mourn the passing of a relative for a year. But Old Dog Dreaming Woman’s dreamloop was already stirring in me. That was two winters ago.

It was still cold at first light. Everything sparkled with the thick glitter of frost but by mid-morning it would melt into the warmth of the day. It was spring and we were leaving the caves for home again. Winter had been hard, some of us were injured by it, but we had successfully divined permission from the spirits for my journey into the Unborn. That was a necessary beginning. This summer I would have to gain the same consent from our people. I’d stand before every clan, endure whatever sacrifices they had conjured as appropriate for their needs or for my own.

We made our way to the Twilight Women’s camp. From there Thorn Arrow and I would head west for an excursion, everyone else would return to their villages. After arriving Old Dog would announce the coming of the dreamloop and dispatch runners to all the distant places to which I would have to venture.

Thorn Arrow and I crossed the stream and made our way through an ancient peat bog that had been left carefully undisturbed. Rannoch rush still grew thick there, it otherwise disappearing little by little from the where sphagnum was harvested. That moss had always given us an excellent dressing for wounds of all kinds. It would stanch bleeding, heal sores, relieve itching and soothe insect bites. The women had learned that it was a warm and absorbent lining for cradles and sleeping places. Peat was used to chink dwellings and equally brewed into medicinal tea. Its fibers could be spun and woven, bears ate it with relish and it was highly fermentable.

Within this habitat were some open, sunny places. Heath and heather grew in thick colonies; their winter blooms were good medicine for hearts often grown heavy in the Winter Wait. Many of their companions could be found in any runner’s medicine bag.

Decocted wood ashes of sweetgale could be placed on your tongue to cleanse your body. Deergrass was a purifying emetic and cleared away the sickness of exhaustion. The root of licorice fern when held in your mouth prevented thirst and hunger. We often drank mad-dogweed tea or washed aching muscles with it. We chewed its roots to strengthen the veins in our legs or to cure lameness in our backs. Bedstraw was carried for protection and to insure a successful run. Its leaves and flowers made a good foot soak or wound dressing. Rushes made a strengthening body wash; often its tea was ingested to purge what might be causing weakness or to relieve swelling. We smoked buckbean to guard our passage through dark and foreboding places.

You could find mountain-everlasting in the heathy places. Its smudge could fully revive a runner. Dock grew there too with its thirst quenching leaves. So did the broom that could endow you with courage and determination.

I kept a pouch separate from my runners’ medicine, its contents wholly applicable to taking care of death. I replenished my woundwort even though it was a little early in the season to collect it. Its smudge had important applications when working with the dead and around tombs, protecting the practitioner against troubling visions and dreams associated with the difficult work. The same plant could be used to relieve shortness of breath as well. It was purifying and good medicine for headaches and nervousness.

Thorn Arrow was in bliss, smiling and focused intently on my every word. I showed him each plant, where it grew and what prayers to make so their medicine would be good. It was the first occasion when I was openly candid with him. From here we pushed on to the mountain and back into the thick forest.

Crabapple was exceedingly important to runners. Its bark was chewed to relieve thirst, and its fruit was eaten to kill the sickness found in muscles after a long and difficult run. Chewing bearberry bark would quench thirst too, and we each added a small piece to our belt pouch. Thorn Arrow was well versed in the species packed into footwear and I had him recite those things to me.

Without question many more runners’ remedies came from the Chalky Mountains and alkaline meadows than came from the Old Granite Range. But this was our territory, its smell, its dampness the very earth from which Thorn Arrow and I had been sprung. These species were somehow secretly ours; we took care of them so the rest of the tribe could enjoy their bounty. In a few months the forest would be weighed down with food. Blackberries, cloudberries and dewberries would fill larders in every village for winter. Bilberries, cranberries and cowberries from the wet places would be gathered in limitless numbers of baskets. Acorns and bearberries would be harvested for feasts and to stave off the spirit of hunger. We spoke at length about these things as we pushed our way up the mountain.

We were met by thick stands of willow. Young runners rubbed their bodies with it while apprenticing and wore headbands of it to soothe the pain of isolation and separation from their mother’s groups. We laughed about our own memories of just that experience.

We talked about dogberry bark and how its tea gave endurance to the lungs. We found violets that strengthened the heart and brought comfort when it was needed.

Thorn Arrow and I pushed hard on the last leg, back up into the alpine range. There we could find an extremely rare variety of wormwood, its relatives hugely abundant otherwise in the alkaline range. Wormwood was exceedingly important to runners. Leaves were chewed to relieve thirst or packed in shoes for strength. A body bathed in it was endowed with the ability to run great distances. It was indisputably the best protection one could carry against injury of any type imaginable, tangible or disparate. We came across roseroot, an indispensable replacement for bad water, and finally emerged from the forest above the snow line again.

Spring was slow to come to the high places but it had worked plenty of its magic already. The camp was favored by all of us. A jumble of rocks had formed the walls of a superb hunting lodge. The vaulted roof of tree trunks was laid across the tops of the boulders and covered thickly with pine boughs. When the snow fell these quarters were very tight. It was a good size too, easily accommodating twenty or more men. The place was not just a hunting encampment either. A ceremonial circle was marked in the east by the main support beam to which the roof timbers were tied. The door was behind this post, heavily flapped with skins to keep out the wind.

In the western recesses of the dwelling were deep pockets covered with flat stones. Everyone who came to stay was welcomed to the resources that were stashed but also responsible to replenish them before leaving. Some holes held stores of heavy furs and skins, others held caches of flints, fire drills, tinder, bowstrings, medicine, whatever one could need if overtaken by a snowstorm or injury and stranded. Large stacks of firewood were covered with thickly smoked hides.

Most of the roof snow had melted through the branches and into the lodge. It was acutely damp and cold. Thorn Arrow got a hot fire going to dry it out and we went back out into the sun. Our provisions were scant, some dried deer meat and a sack of old berries. The domicile larder contained much of the same. We walked a short distance where the earth had opened up a seep, filled a few bladders with water, and collected some greens and shoots to go with the tired food that remained to us. Come sunrise we’d hunt mountain goat or wild sheep. This would be the last leisure we would enjoy until our gobetween was reeled in or I died trying. We intended to savor it to its fullest.

The sun was well set when we got back. The lodge was warm and reasonably dry. I stoked the fire, we ate some what we had, and went to sleep.

In the morning we finished the meat, made prayers for a good hunt, smudged our weapons and ourselves, and struck out for the lofty places above our position. Thorn Arrow was perhaps the best tracker and archer I knew, so it became his day and his teaching. By mid-morning he had sighted his prey, got off one shot and we were ready to return to camp. We knelt beside the quarry. Thorn Arrow made tender prayers admiring it for its strength, agility and wisdom. He apologized for its death and thanked it for giving its life over to feed us. In return he promised that our lives would be given back to the Earth someday, from which would grow the medicine that would feed his descendants. Thorn Arrow carried the young male ibex back to the shelter. Our day had just begun.

We took the skin in one piece, harvested the organs and butchered the meat. I found an old clay pot in the lodge with which to render the fat. The hide was scraped clean and stretched to dry. Most of the meat was sliced down to jerk and hung on cords above the fire. I wrapped up the brain, liver and kidneys, and set them aside for tanning. Thorn Arrow ate the heart raw. The stomach, intestines and bladder were thoroughly cleaned and packed tightly with greens wilted in hot grease that would preserve them long into next winter. I stowed them in one of the storage holes. Neither one of us had an appetite to eat the eyes so instead we mounted the skull on a pole on which the birds would feast. The biggest bones were cleaned and laid out to dry. They would go in a pit too, the marrow sealed inside would keep and could save someone’s life from starvation. Thorn Arrow built a spit that took a large hank and put it on to roast along with the small bones. Sinew was harvested and stashed. Thorn Arrow took the hooves.

It had been a grand day. We ate well that night and a few more after that. Tomorrow we’d tan the hide with oak galls and the organs that had been set aside, and smoke it good. The meat would be dry by sunset; it and the skin would be stowed as well.

There were a few days to spare. Thorn Arrow went off for the best part of them hunting, exploring and doing the things young men enjoyed. And he would return bringing back dinner.

My interest was in a formation only about thirty feet from the lodge. Various shaped boulders had come to rest in such a way as to form a tight circle, less than my height across with a narrow opening between two of them. This was an incredible spot for dreaming. I squeezed into it and sat down, knees drawn up to my chest and leaning against the wall. I had sat there every chance I had had throughout my entire life. It was a gateway to and from my world, and I knew in my heart it would be there that my gobetween would emerge. I meditated deeply, reposed at the threshold for days.

Reluctantly we awakened knowing our departure for home was at hand. We rechecked the lodge and all its supplies, and fortified a few tired places in the roof. By fall someone would replace the old boughs with green ones before the snow fell again. Everything was in order. I noticed as we headed toward the forest winged creatures had already made short work of the goat skull, only a few tattered morsels were left for the little ones. I wondered when this had happened and hadn’t realized how consuming my contemplation had been until that moment.

I couldn’t remember with any certainty how many days had passed since we had left the caves. Gone were the first celebrations of the tribe and the passage from the Winter Wait to the birth of summer. The Fire Society had put away the old bonfires and rekindled the new ones. I had missed being enchanted by the divination of the Stone Society, prophesying with rocks glowing in the embers of the renewed fires. Sign after sign would have issued from this magic. It was one of my favorite days.

The Life Givers had blessed the pathways that linked our villages together and celebrated the secrets of their own mysteries. The hawthorn, found thick in the Old Granite Range, had been festooned with strips of precious cloth. I had also missed the revelry of flowers with its rich and resonant Turtle dances. Having been at the mercy of the ice spirits, to my relief, their day had passed without my attention. The people had honored the Fire Society for bringing them warmth and light. They in turn helped various water leagues soothe the roaring runoff to the smooth and steady flow of the season. There had been rituals to the stars and moon, and exaltations of music and artistic transformation. Fortunately, Thorn Arrow and I would still make the gaming day.

We reached the ravine and the choice winter camp of the Twilight Women. Their lodge stood against a backdrop of shear basalt that plunged steeply into the stream. From beneath its mass sprung hot and holy water, it exploding to steamy mist as its fire kissed the cold. We called the place the Little Twin Waters. Thorn Arrow waited. I dropped my gear, removed my shoes and approached the abandoned dwelling, entering its midst from the south. On the walls, support posts and ceiling hung a riotous array of Death Clan tokens, bundles of plants, and carvings of conjoined twins. Eight individual chambers surrounded a central room: one for each woman and her Death Clan, and one in the north for Darkling Light, an exceedingly rare individual, revered by the tribe as being synonymous with perfection. Whenever in our midst androgyne presided over all the rituals addressing the balance between men and women and their word was law in the resolution of disputes. Darkling Light belonged to the Twilight Women and was profoundly copious in the ability to bring on the erotic ecstasy of the dreamtime.

Although the rooms opened to the inner circle, it was forbidden for me to enter any except the Greihound. I suspected that the others looked much like ours, strewn with animal detritus and the paraphernalia that dreaming women collected. Captivated, I dawdled examining them. The Twilight Women gathered everything from the exquisitely beautiful to the profoundly monstrous. Bound pairs of exceptional tail and wing feathers, and dried herbs and flowers of every known kind from the valley hung from the rafters. Twin clusters of crystals sparkled in the dusty dimness. Skins of the greihound as well as bones, skulls, teeth and claws filled every corner. Then there were the strange things: skeletal remains of deer, boar, ram and all kinds born with two heads or joined to a twin, creatures who had existed only briefly as transitory ether.

As I glanced from object to object their character seemed to subtly shift as though they were amassing life force from the air. I believed it was a trick of my imagination triggered by exhaustion and dismissed it. But they began to stare at me, every empty socket analytically conscious. As they effectuated, my indiscriminate curiosity reshaped itself into incalculable panic. My eyes darted around the room, the dizzying anxiety stealing the stiffness from my knees.

They whispered and sighed among themselves. I sat down on Snow Rose’s bed faint, and held my head in my hands. Stricken, fear rose into my chest and seized my every breath. Pain consumed me, the intensity of which I had never known. Their voices became louder and louder, filling the room and reaching into the depths of my being with the murmured assertions that the dreamloop was a delusion and Clan Greihound was doomed. Apprehension ripped through me in convulsive waves just as my heart burst to violent tears. I could hear the distant strangle of uncontrollable inner tumult and realized it was coming from my own anguish. Driven to a rigid stance I screamed through the mutilation of my spirit, defying the Ancient Ones. The babble vaporized; there was no wisdom in foregone conclusion. I shook off the influence of the rapture and left for the stream, stumbling at its edge.

The high country thaw had not fully commenced and the debris from autumn had come to rest along the length of the bank, making a foamy primordial froth, swirling white and golden brown. Vapor rose from the water ghostlike, drifted downstream and disappeared, I, spellcaught in the ancestral purl. The frigid air was no match for the sun that streamed through the canopy burning the tops of my knees. I could hear the wild pack yip, yip, yapping the crescendo of their Death Spasm. Flocks of birds glistened blue and silver in great turnings and swirlings in the sky. Their songs rippled off the canyon walls. I had to move on, the desire to linger was becoming thick and seductive. We collected our gear, crossed over the stream and picked up the trail that led to our mothers’ village.

(~ End of Chapter 2 ~)

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Priestess Jean