THE HOUSE INSIDE ME

by Camelia Wheatley

  “Now it’s my turn, where’s the bowl?” I said, looking around. We quickly switched roles. I held the bark bowl of owl’s blood proudly like my ancestors must have done centuries ago. I dripped seven drops of owl’s blood into Meg’s mirror bin. The earth seemed to rumble and shake and turn loose of things shackled in darkness for ages. It was exhilarating. I dipped my forefinger in the blood and painted Meg’s face as I recited the words I hadn’t spoken since I was a little girl. It made me emotional and warmed my heart at the same time. I knew that we were surrounded with the company of angels, ancestors, and Petal People, all witnessing the ceremony that should have been, long, long ago.

  “Divine wisdom, inner light, vision…” I paused and smiled. Meg’s eyes were lit like two diamonds. “And Love. The greatest of these is Love,” I said, marking the final stripe across her face and setting the bowl at my feet. We stood sister to sister, face to face, arm to arm, blood to blood, flesh to flesh, bound by ties from the past, unified by things we may never understand, yet through it all, love held us. Built us. Broke us. Brought us back. We put our foreheads together, and closed our eyes in a wordless prayer. In my head I imagined the whole tribe observing in wonder and approval while a flight of owls watched in silence. We were one. One with ourselves, one with our pasts. One as women, as adults, as sisters, as children once lost, now found. A kingdom reclaimed. Redeemed. Restored. The locust crowns on our heads interlocked with their tiny sword soldiers. We felt powerful. We were queens. We were warriors. We were recipients of inner light, divine wisdom, vision and most of all, love.

  “Wait.” Meg blurted out. She jerked her head back and ran over to the fire.

  “You have got to stop doing that, Meg.”

  “We should have used the talons,” she said, whining and holding up the owl’s feet.

  “Meg. I think its fine. We’ll complete the ceremony without it. I don’t think everything has to be exactly like it was back then. Maw Sue had herbs back then too, and we don’t, so I think we’re fine. We got the gist of it.”

  “Good,” she said, relieved and tossing them into the fire. “I thought for sure you’d make me wear them.”

  “You’re the pioneer woman, not me.” I laughed.

  “Well, I have my limits,” she said, tossing her green scarf like a drama queen.

  “Okay, queen sparkle diamond slash Daniel Boone, ha-ha. Whoever you are. Let’s finish this,” I said, getting up and walking to my mirror bin. Meg followed behind me. I had no idea if three words would seal the amulet and seal the ceremony. I hoped and prayed it would, so Meg and I could feel whole, complete, seven, as the initial ceremony was supposed to do, way back when, before the chaos hit and we left the lid open, never sealing it. No matter, it was all we got. We had to try. We sat on the ground facing the fire, our mirror bins expectant in front of us.

  “On the count of three we’ll say it together and close the lid,” I said, nodding to Meg.

  “Three, two, one.” We spoke slow and steady, excited, yet curious, and then we simultaneously closed the mirror bin lids. Neither of us lifted our hands from the mirror bins. We were each hopeful, expectant of something to happen, something we had missed that night long ago, something denied us, taken from us. Our eyes rolled around and scanned our surroundings for clues, anything that might connect us to the otherworldly we so much wanted to catch a glimpse of. Something to comfort us, validate us, and certify that we were not half-baked crazy Southern sisters with a penchant for the dark side. The woods were eerie and there was a black curtain folding in on us. The fire dwindled down to an amber glow as we waited in wonder, taking in the sounds of the night. Then I heard a crack.

  “Sorry,” Meg said, popping her neck. “Are we done?”

  “Well, it’s not like anything is happening,” I said, lifting my hands from the mirror bin.

  “Maybe it’s not supposed to, Cass. Maybe it is what it is. It happens like it happens.”

  “Profound words, Madam Meg. I’ll remember that,” I said, rolling my eyes in slight disappointment. In my childhood mind, I expected something magical to present itself, something mysterious and unexplainable. In retrospect, I also thought about what Doc said about clay feet—those expectations I had may be too high. So maybe Meg was right. It is what it is. It happens like it happens. Ha. My sister. Never a way with words, that one. I was happy we completed the ceremony. We sealed the amulet. We did our part. I was sure Maw Sue was proud of us. As for me…I had other business. It was time to take my Kingdom back.

  I walked over and picked up the two roses I had laid on the ground. Meg had put some logs on the fire and the bright light from the flames lit up the riverbank. I got closer to the edge and bent down to sit and meditate. I could hear the ripple of the water but it did not drown out what was in my head. I heard my screams, felt the pain, the sounds, the splashing water, me fighting, the flashbacks, the great sadness as it entered like a possessed demon of the dead. I glared at the place where it happened. It was time. I steadied myself and leaned over, placing each rose in the water. In my vision it might as well have been myself as a child back then, and my distant mother who exiled me from her life. They were simply roses, but in the Seventh Tribe, they were more. They were the grief takers and had they not been there, to help me in my life through my troubles, I’m not sure I would be alive today. Across the water, they floated like mangled corpses, Viking burials without the flames, slowly drifting around the bend of the river. I took a deep, abiding, redemptive breath—and let it all out. Maw Sue said salvation, the deeper meaning of the word, meant Room to breathe. And letting go of the dark past meant I had room to breathe freely, unbound, safe and forgiven. I inhaled and exhaled deeply. I felt peace again.

  Meg sat down beside me quietly as to not disturb my meditation. She put her bare feet in the water and swirled them around. The sounds stirred me. I closed my eyes and whispered the words my soul needed to hear.

  “Birds of the air, lilies of the field, great stars of Heaven. I want to be me, whole and complete. Make me seven. Send me crumbs so I may consume and make my life a beautiful bloom.” I felt the atmosphere fill with the presence of God, the space of time between the void, the gap between the fingers. In my head I could see the masterpiece painting of those godly hands reaching out and those hands of humanity stretching to just touch.

  “In honor of seven. Amen,” Meg said as she grabbed my hand and squeezed it like she did when we were kids. The air around us was magical, yet tranquil. We were kids, yet we were women. A little of both combined. A little closer to God than we’d been since childhood when our belief was innocent, untouched by life and trials. In sequence, with warrior-painted blood-streaked faces of inner light, we reached upwards with our branded seven palms like two kids plucking out stars from the deep black sky. We reached to touch the realm, the gap of the great void, the space between Adam’s and God’s fingers. Together we braced ourselves for the journey ahead. We were grit and courage, moon and stars, faith and hope.

  We look. We love. We let go. We surrender our past, our present and our future to a higher power. Like the suffering servant Maw Sue always told us stories about, the rusty nails in his hands, his pierced bloody feet, the betrayed sword slicing his side and the thorns of his humble crown piercing his head—for the first time, in all these years, I understood forgiveness. Of myself, and others. Clay feet forgiveness. Instead of clinging and being a keeper of things that were not mine to keep—I let go. I surrendered. When I tossed the two Petal People roses in the water, that represented the damaged part of me as a child, and the rose, the distant mother I thought abandoned me, I forgave us both. This was my release. And my redemption. The more I let go, the more I saw the bright light of God’s presence as I did as a child. But most importantly, the wide, long gaps of space between my mother and me suddenly grew closer, as if we’d never been far apart at all. Sitting in the exact place of the great sadness, I had to forgive the boy who took my innocence that night long ago. I didn’
t forget…but I forgave to release myself from the bondage. By surrendering the rose to the river, I reclaimed my crown, my right to my body, myself, my soul. I took back the crown stolen from me as a child.

  I am a little girl—I am a woman. I am enough.

  After our silent childlike ritual, we gazed out into the river. It was getting too intense, so I decided to lighten the mood.

  “Heyyyyyy-oo-ohhhha (Whoa-oaaa-aohhh)

  Whoa-a-a-a-ahhhh (heyyyyy-oohhhh)

  Heyyyyyy-oo-ohhh (Whoa-oaaa-aohhh)”

  I sang and pushed my shoulders against Meg’s. As kids Maw Sue helped us make up a song for our tribe dance. Meg and I loved it, even Maw Sue was fond of it and got her jig on every now and then. In a few seconds, I was on my feet circling the fire and enticing Meg to join me. She looked at me like, What the hell is going on now?

  I sang loudly, coaxing her with laughter and teasing her face with a pine straw limb. She got up and walked near the fire. Her face showed me that she was about done with my childhood games. But I kept singing, I kept dancing. All of a sudden, when I spun around, Meg jumped forward, her body crouched low to the ground and her arms spread-eagle, circling and bobbing. She cut in right on time in Meg fashion.

  “Heyyyyyy-oo-ohhhh.”

  “Whoa-a-a-a-a-ooohhhh,” I answered in fire and spirit.

  “Whoa-a-a-a-a-ooohhhh.” Meg sang louder as her voice echoed through the forest. Two sisters lost in a moment, a song, a place where our past and our present intermingled. As we sang and danced, the spirit world around us came alive and the dust swirled up with sand ghosts. The Seventh Tribe joined in; the seven sisters were there, Maw Sue, her mother, and even the patriarchs, Brue and Simon. It was electricity surging and energy moving, the earth, the wind, the water, the fire, the moon, the dark. Then as if my mind willed it into being, she appeared. Though Meg would not see her, my mind’s eye knew she deserved to be there. My Mother Moonshine formed from the beams of light shining down upon us. She looked right through me as if we held a mutual understanding, without words. I fell into the deep blue sea of her eyes. I looked. And I saw love. The only way she could give it. I took in all of her, touched by the moon. Feeling her fissures, and her cracks and the great flaws of her embodiment. I felt her shine and I smiled. She joined right in with her pots, pans and silver spoons. Mama cut loose as my daddy liked to say. And he was so right. Hooting, howling, yipping and yelling. Banging, clanging, shimming and shaking. In the middle of the pine woods, around a roaring fire, the past emerged with the present and it was glorious.

  Our lyrics could be heard from the tops of the bottle brush loblolly pine trees. Meg and I danced till we collapsed in laughter and solitude beside the crackling fire. We lay on the ground side by side like we used to, looking up at the twinkling sky and its wonders. The night gave its sacrifice of sounds, its wildness heard by the creatures of the night, the coyotes howling, the cicada crackles humming, the crickets chirping and the frogs croaking.

  We had our kingdom back.

  A half hour later, Meg was waiting in the truck while I went to pour water on the fire. When I turned to walk away, I heard a sound coming from the forest. I stopped and listened. It was coming from the edge of the thicket and then I heard voices. My eyes swirled and scanned the area in fear someone or something was out there. For a second, it took me back to the night of the great sadness. I sat the empty vodka bottle down by the fire and walked closer to where the sound was coming from. The voices got louder, the snapping and popping of the branches closer, and I began to shake.

  “Shall we bury them?” the voice said. My body convulsed tip-to-toe. No, no, no, I thought. I can’t do this. I’m healed. I’ve had therapy. I’m done with this. The voice gave way to a shadow, and the shadow turned into a little girl. I recognized her as me when I was five. Her face still young and innocent. That was me before it happened. Seeing her broke my heart. And then suddenly another one appeared. No, no, no, this can’t be happening. What is wrong with me? I’ve settled this. It’s all over now. Forgive and move on. I can’t be having a breakdown again. Why is this happening? But it was happening in plain sight. Every age of me as a child appeared, and they all stared at me saying the same thing.

  “Shall we bury them?” they asked repeatedly.

  I wanted to scream into the deep black pitch of the pine woods because I knew my mind could not take another breakdown, not after what I’d been through. Back when I called my mother, during my meltdown with Sam, they appeared to me the same, all of them burdened and carrying my past on their backs, the word skeletons, etched and branded with words, scribbles and things to fix my life and the lives of others. I needed them back then. But I deal with life and problems differently now. There are no longer any word skeletons to bury. No burdens to carry to the hush cemetery. No unspoken words to keep hidden. No voices to silence. No little girls to protect anymore. And then it hit me. I know this, but they don’t. I’ve released everything in my life, but them. By the time I had figured out what I needed to do, they were all there.

  Eight, nine and ten appeared. “Shall we bury them?” Eleven, twelve and thirteen appeared. Along with fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen and eighteen. All of them bent over with word skeletons on their backs asking, “Shall we bury them?”

  Tears gushed. The magnitude of what I had to do overpowered me.

  I hitched, heaved, shook and wept, looking inward and through each age of myself. They didn’t know what I was going to do. They were only doing what I created each of them to do, back then, when I needed them so much. But like me, I know they yearn to be set free. They are not keepers. They were never meant to carry the burdens I gave them. They came back tonight because the ceremonies Meg and I performed beckoned them to me. It was their turn. They were each waiting on me to give them permission to be free. Unbound. Unconfined. Released from the House of Seven. To live. To finally live as they always should have.

  I could barely stop crying. I bit my lips while my body convulsed at the savage weeping of my soul. I thought I had cried heavily before, but no. This was a new undoing. A snot-slinging, body-shuddering, soul-rattling Southern howl that split the seams of the Earth. An unraveling from the inside out kind of breaking. Pieces of me had to come back together. I knew that, and I think they knew that too. The reason I hesitated for so long, and wept so hard, was I knew what would happen once I let go.

  It’s hard to let go when it’s all you’ve ever known, even if it’s bad for you and stunts your growth and keeps you from where you should be. I survived because of these little girls. Every one of them gave me strength when I had none. When I didn’t have a voice, or it was taken from me, or silenced, they were my lips. They etched the words on the bones and hoisted it high on their shoulders to carry, and asked, “Shall we bury them?” And I’d say, “Yes, bury them.” They’d march to the Hush cemetery behind the House of Seven with the oak trees and upside-down moss children with their eerie eyes glowing. In my heart of hearts, I knew there’d come a day of reckoning, a day of redemption, of resurrection, of digging up bones. I never realized it would be now. When I gathered my bearings, I stood before each of them and touched their cheek and looked deeply into their eyes. It was tender and painful.

  “Shall we bury them?” each one asked me one last time, with a deep yearning in their eyes.

  I sobbed and sniffled, “No, child. Don’t bury them. Not today. Not ever again.”

  A glint of light sparkled in their eyes for the first time. They looked at me, at each other, then back at me, confused, yet curious.

  “No more burials,” I said, halfway crying and raising my arms. “No more silence. They have a voice now, because of you. You were their keepers and it is time to let them live. Let them have their VOICE! Let them speak. Let them be written. Let them be stories and tales. Let them be love. Let them be loud. Let them scream if they want to. Let them sing. Let them be praise and let them be worship. Let me be light and let them be dark. Let them be the child. Let them
be the adult. Let them free to be the voice they’ve always been. You were my keepers. Of the word bones and me. You kept me safe. I am thankful. You helped me survive. Your job is done. You are free. Let the words, the bones, the skeletons, the roaring voices—let them be free.” The moment was magical and mystical and darkly enchanting. Words flowed from inner places within me, long ago hidden and unspoken. I didn’t want it to end, but I knew it had to. Because with every ending, starts a new beginning. Each girl I created out of happenstance to survive, to keep the voices and the written words alive. Now I must let them go. Each girl met my eyes one by one, a meeting of the mind, a smile, a knowing—the word bone skeletons on their backs disintegrated into dust and they walked into the woods of the pine curtain, fading into the foggy atmosphere of the night. When they were all gone, and I was alone, I closed my eyes and wept but not for long. I knew it was different now. Because of them, I had found my voice, my true authentic voice. I could make it. I was a warrior. I was strong.

  I turned and walked back to the truck. I stopped by the fire and picked up the empty bottle, but something made me stop and look up. I glanced into the deep, dark, tranquil sky and suddenly out of nowhere the owl was there, as if somehow, it wasn’t there at all, blending in with the wind, shadows, slinks and blackness. I smiled so hard I thought my heart would explode. For the longest time, silence had been a burden to me, a terrible madness eating me from the inside out. Until now.

  Broken knobs, black angels and blue lines. All three blended imperfectly to form me.

  Maw Sue was right all along.

  I made lovely my losses.

  And owls…they fly silent.

  29

  Two Buckets, One Choice

  And now these three remain: