“When I was a child I woke up here,” Eleanor began.
“Where is here?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” she says. “It’s our world. Just a different version of it. At night, when you look up, it’s the same moon, the same stars.”
“Do you know when we are?” I ask. Eleanor looks at me confused. “I mean, is this the past? Is this the future? Have you come across any old buildings? Concrete ones? Metal bridges? Abandoned cars?” Eleanor stares at me vacantly. “We used to go driving in these—” She shakes her head unknowingly and I stop.
“It doesn’t matter, Dad,” she says. “I’m here. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
As we left the battlefield and entered the forest, the signs of bloodshed began to diminish. The trees and grass took back their perfection. Even with the murmur of others in the party talking, you could still hear the chirping of birds and the chattering of other forest animals. While there were still signs amongst us that a battle had occurred from the tone of the conversations around us, it was just another day in the neighborhood. There was laughter and jesting. Further up, one warrior said something to another that caused a jovial shouting match between the two that nobody won. Instead, each wrapped an arm around the other, and they exchanged a kiss.
We continue to walk in silence for a while before Eleanor begins again. “I was young when they found me, crying in the woods. I can’t remember what happened, but often in my dreams I find myself alone in the woods, walking for hours. Tired, hungry, and thirsty. Looking for you.” She pauses for a moment, turning to look at me. “I remember you. Even though it’s been a long time, I see your face in my dreams. You are always crying.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking down at my feet.
“What happened?” Eleanor asks. “How did I end up here, away from you?”
“I made a mistake,” I said. “After your mother died—do you remember her?” She nods. “I didn’t think I could be a good father. I tried. But I didn’t try hard enough and I wished you away.”
She’s quiet after that and I let her be.
“Why are you here?” Eleanor asked.
“I want to bring you home,” I say quietly.
“I am home. I’ve been home for sixteen years. I have all I need here.”
“But this is all you know. There’s so much more. Here you’re fighting, warring. If you can come with me you could be at peace.”
“There’s not always war,” she retorts.
“What happens if you run out of food?” I ask.
“We care for the Earth and the Earth provides.”
“But—”
Eleanor cuts me off. “This is the way I know. I know of no other way and this way is enough.” She looks at me, her eyes sad and full of disappointment.
I turned away and saw that the trees had thinned and through them I could see the makings of a village. Huts made of fallen trees and mud with a path cutting between them. Scattered amongst them were fire pits for food and gatherings.
Next to the village was a small open lake. The warriors whooped and they all splashed into the water at once, washing away the blood and gore. Eleanor joined them and motioned for me to join them as well. The water was cool and refreshing. I waded up to my knees and then sat, letting my head dip forward until it was submerged, scrubbing vigorously at my hair and face. When I came up for air, Eleanor was next to me and she handed me what I first thought was a rock, but when she mimed scrubbing, realized that it was a rough herbal soap. I sighed with relief, because whether it was imagined or not, I still felt like I smelled of war and death. Rubbing the bar across my chest and arms, it created a rich pink lather as it picked up trace amounts of blood. I submerged myself again and the nightmare of the day’s battle disappeared as the water pulled away the evidence.
The warriors were laughing and playing in the water. Two of the male warriors decided that it was the best place to let out some remaining aggression and began to wrestle. One of the men lunged for his opponent’s legs, grabbing him around the knees and lifting him up. The other hammered his hands down between his attacker’s shoulder blades with a mighty clap and with that the match was over as the attacker lost his grip and fell face first into the water.
While others let their bloodlust out in similar matches, others—men pairing with women, men pairing with men, women pairing with women—waded up to the shore and stripped of their garments, laying them on the rocky, wet soil.
They were unashamed of their nakedness. I looked on. How could I not? These acts were happening all around me and it was hard to ignore. I looked to Eleanor for guidance, but she just shrugged.
I was a voyeur, a witness, a voyeuristic witness watching with a mixture of excitement and horror as these warriors who were covered in blood and grime only a few moments ago engaged in these natural couplings. It was far beyond the bounds of decency, yet what appeared to be so much a part of the natural order of things in this village.
I saw a young woman, naked in the middle of the beach surrounded by multiple men. One was buried in her mouth, while another kissed the inside of her thighs, while still another was kissing her cheek and ear, and the fourth was sucking on her breasts.
There were two men, one older and one younger, kissing each other. They were lying on their backs, side by side. They were kissing each other, their mouths roaming and exploring each other’s bodies, while stroking each other’s genitals.
Another man was doing the same thing to a young woman: kissing her while his hand moved rhythmically between her legs. Soon his hand shifted, grabbing her buttocks forcefully and pressing her against him before reversing the movement and using the momentum to roll on top of her.
Everyone seemed rapturously happy with the proceedings. There was no sense of showmanship or shame in their actions. They were just doing what their bodies and their hormones wanted to do to release the stress from the day’s battle.
The skinny warrior, the one who had taken the head from me, waded up, beckoning me. Given the events on the beach, I thought he was propositioning me, so I held my hands up shaking my head. He laughed, grabbing himself between the legs and made a rude gesture. Shaking his arms out, he held his hands out, moving them from side to side as he shuffled around in the water.
“He wants to see what you’re made of,” Eleanor said.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“You’re the man who took down the Priestess Killer.”
I sigh. “Can you just tell him it was you?” I ask.
She shook her head.
“Fuck,” I say as I nod in agreement to the warrior. He grins and splashes towards me. I can’t get out of the way fast enough and he tackles me. My balance is lost and I disappear under the water.
A hand grabs me by the forearm and pulls me up. The skinny warrior is laughing and so is Eleanor. With a shrug he turns and leaves, heading back to shore as does Eleanor. I follow, shaking the water from my body as I go.
Eleanor weaves her way through the couples lying on the beach. Each group, in some way, is in the thick of their shared passion. One couple grabs at Eleanor as she passes them, trying to pull her into the fray, but she shakes their hands off, saying something that I don’t understand.
I can see smoke rising from the village and as I near their encirclements, I can see why: the fire pits had been lit and there was meat being turned on spits by elderly men and women. My stomach growled and as if to answer, an elderly woman came up bearing a bowl of dried fish and fruit. Following Eleanor’s lead, I reach in and grab a couple of pieces, immediately shoving them into my mouth. Oh, it was delicious; a pleasant, smokey flavor with a smooth and silky texture. I voiced a thank you and the woman nodded in return. My stomach wanted more, but Eleanor turned me away from the spits.
“Come,” she said, motioning me towards the largest building in the village: a single story circular building with a thatched roof. “Before we feast, we must celebrate and remember the fallen.”
Ducking underneath its low door, we enter. It’s dark, save for a small fire burning in the center, it’s smoke snaking its way up through a small opening in the roof. We sit cross-legged on the floor as more slightly familiar faces filter in: male and female warriors from the battle, as well as the mothers, wives, sons, and daughters of the fallen.
Everyone is silent and reverent, save for the babble and chitter-chatter of the youngest congregants, but even they are quiet when three women enter the chamber.
These three are naked, except for ceremonial headdresses of feathers and a fox’s skinned face. The woman in the front, the youngest of the three, holds a large turtle shell in her hands. When she sets it down next to the fire, I can see a plum-colored liquid sloshing the sides. The second woman, older than the first, her belly swollen in pregnancy, is carrying an incense burner. It's held by a braided vine, releasing a sweet, fragrant smell that burns my nostrils. As she passes, I inhale deeply, and feel a fog lifting from my brain. The third woman—the eldest—cups the skull of some mammal. It’s upside down and I can’t tell whether it's a large cat or a small bear. Its contents are dark and the way they are piled, make it impossible to distinguish what it contains. When she reaches the center, she holds the skull over the liquid in the turtle shell and let the contents fall in.
They remind me of the three Fates from ancient Greek mythology as represented in the tragedies I had to read in school. And as if to draw the connection even further, they turned—the maiden, mother, and crone—each facing different directions, and began to speak as one.
“What are they saying,” I whisper to Eleanor.
“Every year,” she whispers back, “or after a battle like this one, we gather to remember the dead. They are calling upon the dead from today and the past. They are calling upon the Earth.” She scoots closer till our knees are touching and leans closer, resting her chin on my shoulder, and begins to recite:
Blood and souls shall be our mantle, our offspring.
Goddesses of the Earth shall be our provisions.
We shall be fathers and mothers, sons and daughters.
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The Earth shall reign and the sky shall reign
and it will hold dominion over us.
Let your ears be opened to hear
the voice of the word and the law.
Let your eyes be open to see
the goddess of the word and the reason for the law.
She shall look upon us and we shall know you.
She shall bring us truth.
Let our words be truth and peace, love and serenity.
Let the earth know us and take us
into her arms as beloved sons and daughters.
May she take us in, for we belong to her and to the gods.
Then shall all gods come down and bless us
as the chosen of all gods,
and speak to us with the tongues of the gods.
We shall walk in beauty and peace.
She will set your faces against the evil before you
and take the law of sin from before you and give you her knowledge.
She will cut off your head from amongst your brother and sisters,
and your head shall be upon her scepter.
She will put in your place the dust at your feet
and wipe out your shame and hurt.
She will scatter you across the land
and like grass you will grow upon new land.
If you are not hers, you are not mine and you are not ours.
If you want what should not be wanted
or seek what should not be sought,
she will cast you out into the wilderness
and she will make you into a desolate wasteland.
There will be no safety and comfort.
She will take that away and set a watch for you
in the place that is desolate so you cannot emerge.
She will set her foot upon your heel and upon your breast.
She will shut your mouth. She will take your lips
into the darkness and your lips into the fire.
She will shake your fingers and shake your feet
and your body shall fall away with her foot upon your neck.
Behold, if you set your face against her,
her eyes will be upon you and she will cast
your head from amongst your brothers and sisters.
If you make your mouth to utter against her,
your tongue will be torn out like a worm
and you will be found in wickedness.
If you turn away from her,
she will take you into the wilderness.
Her hand will make a wound in you
and she will cut your heart into pieces.
If you turn away from her eyes
and if your mouth does murmur against her,
your mouth will become a wound in you.
If you drink of the Earth and don’t turn away
from her face, you should be satisfied.
But if you turn away, she will throw you into the fire
and you will be eaten by wolves
and she will make a fire from your bones.
When you drink of the Earth, you have tasted her goodness,
and she will turn to you as you consume her in your mouth.
She will come to you with her hand
and with her hand she will draw you away, turning you onto your path.
When the day has been finished and our covenant has ended,
she will leave you, but still be with you as you discover your way.
The women are silent and so is Eleanor.
The youngest picks up the turtle shell and bending forward, hefts it above her head before gently resting it on the back of her neck; bent forward in offering. One by one, everyone that was gathered walked up, knelt before her and drank from the shell before returning to their place.
“Come on,” Eleanor says and she moves forward.
When it’s my turn, I kneel and let my lips touch the outer rim of the shell. The drink is bitter and earthy. Whatever the substance was that was poured into it I can feel against my teeth. I swish and swallow, trying to take down as much grit as possible. There’s still a bit left as I rub my tongue around the inside of my mouth.
Eleanor is sitting cross-legged when I get back to my spot. Her hands rest on her thighs and her eyes are closed as her breath is slow and measured. I do the same, turning my thoughts inward.
A hand rests on my knee and when I open my eyes I see Eleanor watching me.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
“To save you,” I respond.
“No,” she says. “You aren’t here for me. You are here for yourself. Why are you here?”
“Because I sent you away. I made a mistake.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t know if I could be a good father.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t give you my all.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t give your mother, Veronica, my all. I wasn’t there. I was always away from her—in my own head.”
“What is it that you want most?” Eleanor asks.
I close my eyes thinking back through the past several days and months—all the way back to the funeral. “I want to know why, if there is a God, why he took your mother away.” I think about Veronica, lying sick on her bed, taking her final breaths. “I want to tell your mother that I loved her.” I think about myself as a child, hiding in the closet wrapping one end of the belt around the clothing rod and the other end around my neck. “I want to know why I exist.”
Opening my eyes, Eleanor is lit in a myriad of colors—teals and violets. They outline the edges of her, running her length in parallel lines and between those lines there are whirling geometric shapes: tunnels, funnels, triangles, spirals, hexagons, lattices, honeycombs, and cobwebs. Some of the shapes are formed in the space like nets.
My eyes close, but I think I can see my body reflected back to me, a mirror image of Eleanor, flitting and dancing around me.
I am floating.
I am flying.
Everything is pulsing.
The universe is breathing. I feel connected to it. And yet, I am free.
Opening my eyes again, I can see the colors around Eleanor swirl and shift, gyrating faster and faster.
I take a deep breath and release it.
The colors continue to change, as do the patterns with them.
I take another deep breath, but this time hold it.
The colors change yet again.
Then they return to their original form.
It’s as though they are listening to my breath. As though I am influencing them.
I keep my eyes closed and continue to breathe in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out.
I breathe again, only this time I make it bigger. Like a scream, but slower. Then I open my mouth and blow out the most beautiful sound; a rainbow of soundwaves escaping from within me.
The patterns around me begin to change. My eyes are closed, but the lights feel so bright. I can’t tell anymore where the patterns begin and end. Patterns I had never seen before are now my favorites. They are so beautiful, colorful and wavy.
I’m breathing faster. I can hear a sound. It’s a whooshing sound. Like air coming in and out of my body. It’s a beautiful sound.
My eyes are still closed.
I hear a sound as my chest pushes out on an in-breath. This is now the most beautiful sound. The patterns change, but they are much slower this time. It is like the ocean, as it breathes. It sounds like the water from the tide is coming closer to me.
I’m afraid to move. I want to move, but I can’t.
The water is on the beach and I am at the shoreline.
The sounds are all around me, getting louder.
I feel a force push me into the water. I feel like I’m being sucked down into it, but it is as though I am not part of it; as if I am somehow disconnected from the experience of being in water.
Behind my eyelids, I can see the patterns all around me. Then I hear myself think, You are not in the water anymore.
I feel like I have to look at myself, but I am so afraid of what I might see.
I slowly become aware of singing. Cracking an eyelid open, I can see the maiden and mother kneeling on the dirt, their voices joined in unison; each pulling and pushing against the other as their music whirls up into the air.
The crone comes over to me, pulling in smoke from what looked like a thick roll of lit tobacco leaves. She pushes the air into my face as she says in her language, “There is life in death and all the phases in between.”
As the smoke swirls around my head and I inhale its earthy scent, the colors begin to pulse faster and faster.
I feel every part of me—fingers, ears, hands, legs, feet, skin, eyes—feel the pulsing as though I am surrounded by fireflies.
Where did the crone go? She is further down the circle, using a gathering of feathers to direct tobacco smoke over a prone woman.
Through the colors, a single shape emerges, moving towards me: Eleanor.
The colors, the shapes, the patterns, the speed, the air, the colors, the colors, the colors, the colors.
I am breathing in and I am breathing out.
I am breathing in and I am breathing out.
I am breathing in and I am breathing out.
I am breathing in and I am breathing out.
It is a tunnel of light and in its light I see myself.
I can hear my heart beating.
Through the opening in the roof, I can see that the sky has turned to black.
Moonlight illuminates our bodies, as do the stars.
The tunnel of light envelops me.
The color of light.
My eyes are open, and I see a woman, Eleanor—beautiful, ethereal, young, and wise—looking down on me.
“The universe is breathing,” I tell her.
“Yes,” she whispers, and she smiles.
Eleanor moves closer and presses her hand against my cheek. Leaning forward, she whispers into my ear, “The world is but a dream.”
Her voice is like water, cascading through me.
Her words are like water.
Her touch is like water.
Her gaze is like water.
Her smile is like water.
Her heart is like water.
“You are like water,” I whisper.
“And you are the tide,” she responds.
I feel the wind upon my skin. I feel the earth beneath my feet. I feel the stars upon my face.
Eleanor leans over me. She pushes a finger into the center of my forehead and as the pressure intensifies she bursts into light.
The goddess.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper and I don’t take my eyes away from hers.