abhaya
Hecate: Goddess of Crossroads
The final days stretched out like the markings on a pregnant woman's belly. Skin taunt, navel wider than Aslan's country. If you looked into it with one eye, you could see the constellation of the child's lifeline.
Answers were everywhere; you simply needed to learn how to look.
It was too long, the final forty-eight hours of the voyage. The best suits were taken from the wooden wardrobes and beaten with the brush brooms to yield the dust they'd collected over twenty-two days.
Auspicious numbers meant everything to the girl, and she chose not to wear the prescribed color for the ceremony: white. It was too pure, and crossing the boundary from where she was to where she could be would take more courage than the silk gown with pearl buttons. She needed a strong tone to hold her in place as she pranced across the stage. Pride kept people in touch with themselves - their inner voice - like the seed in the oyster's mouth. Presented on that pink tongue for greedy hands to pluck out and shine until it spun silver in the light.
Pink was always in fashion, with so many hues to choose from! Fuschia, blush, rose, neon, razzmatazz. The girl chose a Persian pink gloss to go with the floor length down she'd purchased in Spain. It was a floral print with lavender, canary, merengue, and watermelon-coloured petals. She wanted to feel as light as the sheer fabric she tossed over her head to cover her crown and shoulders. She'd tied her hair back in a high bun and wove a piece of fabric around her hairline. Her headpiece was white as the clouds and just as ephemeral. The material was so gauzy it could have dissolved with the rain.
Like the other participants, she was barefoot and stood in the mud under the old tree where the King Fishers sang their stories. The trip had been punctuated with their thuds as they flung themselves beak-first into the mirrored windows of the main study hall.
Someone had tried to prevent the despair by hanging shawls across the windows. They'd been set in place with wooden safety pins. It did not help, and someone else took them down. The birds were insistent, and what did the knocking have to tell the participants as they sat with their muddy feet tucked under their pretty outfits?
When the call struck, the girl was quick to observe the opportunity. One hot afternoon, King Fisher missed the mirror and flew straight into the study hall! It flitted around the room before settling itself on the windowsill. No one noticed it but the girl. She let it observe their session silently. Someone let it out, of course. It was eventually considered, and there was much flapping and flitting about on the bird and human side of the event.
On the day of the ceremony, the people stood in a line as they waited to walk across the makeshift stage. Hands in a prayer, thankyou-thankyou-thankyou-they whispered and bowed to their teachers. No hugging allowed; crying was permitted, but do it in solitude; take your papers, receive the mala, and keep striding to the other side.
Pictures were taken with the mountains and river as the backdrop. People slipped aside in pairs and small groups to take selfies. As the sun slid lower in the west, the light sparkled on the hilltops and spread gold onto the bare shoulders and necks of the women.
Was it acceptable to show off in such an environment? The girl didn't think so, yet her arms were bare. She felt needy and spread the gauzy from her headpiece across her chest.
She was more interested in watching than talking and kept to the sidelines to absorb the final moments with the crowd she'd been living alongside for almost one month.
I am excited to cook my own food, she'd replied when asked how she felt about their departure.
Mentally, the girl was very much invested in ideas and instructions; however, she'd seen too much white for the time being. What animals are white? Snow leopards, swans, and sheep.
The room was a mess; clothes and makeup had been left in piles on the bed and the dresser. She mentally made a list of the items to pack and prepare for the next phase of her voyage.
It was neverending. This routine. The fussing over stuff and setting it out, only to roll it up and pack it away for the next event. She swept the floor incessantly and wiped the mirrors so often that she was sick of seeing herself.
Perhaps this is why she was so tired of everyone else: they stood out as a stark reminder of who she was, who she'd become in the last three weeks.
A Woman With Three Faces: her chosen nickname. She was the Mother, Maiden, and Wandering Crone. Reassume the landscape of death, she'd told herself time and time again. An ending is a doorway to a new beginning.
Get a head start on the sacrifice by offering yourself today! The girl wrote in her journal furiously. Her hand held the pain after she'd put down the pen. Her writing was a relic: cursive. Her back bore the privilege of being able to sit so much, or perhaps in this era, standing was the liberty people sought for themselves.
The girl didn't know or bother with the mundane ideas of those around her. She'd write about it, capturing the snippets and whispers she picked up while abroad. She could not understand much of it and had to turn around to catch the conversation with a different ear.
A group was forming in the center of the field under the trees where the moon hung in a silver crescent like a cat's tail dangling from a roof. The girl made her way to the camaraderie, which took place in front of the altar adjacent to where the leaders sat on the bamboo benches. She moved to the left, closer to the woman who'd dusted her eyelids with white glitter and drawn stars on her cheeks. This woman also gave her a new word, besos.
As she settled, one of the men paraded to the center and sat down completely on the girl's dress. He had long hair woven in braids and a broad smile he saved for everyone- except for the girl. He had donned a pair of long shorts matching tunic and tied a turban in the same shade: a warm cherry-red that split the sleeves of pastel and white down the middle.
You should be in the center, the girl said; the red is perfect for it!
It's not red, it's orange. He did not glance back as he said it.
Of course, you would say that the girl replied, not needing to, but wanted to dig in, though she had moved to accommodate him.
This is ORANGE, that is RED! The man replied, now looking at her and waving his hands at a man taking photos who was wearing a loose dress shirt that the girl perceived to be pink.
The girl pursed her lips. At least we're not discussing the weather, she thought to herself. She smiled and clapped and made the sounds expected of someone celebrating.
Moments later, the man in what was perceived to be red presented himself on the bench at one side of the two training leaders.
It's a perfect array of the lower chakras! One woman exclaimed, pulling out her phone for another photograph. The lower triangle, you see it: red, orange, and yellow! It's perfect.
The girl attempted to make eye contact with the man. But, of course, he avoided her.
Photo source.
