Goddess Rising

by Melissa Bowersock

  A favorite game of Grace’s during her solitary times was to try to calculate when Greer would come. Pat, Grace knew, was the fifth-born daughter of the line, and by several oblique references had as much as said that the Sibling was one of the younger daughters. Pat wasn’t sure—and wasn’t inclined to discuss it—but seemed to be in her early forties. The younger sister could be anywhere from one to seven to twenty years younger. During the Bad Time, people lost track of years and dates, and no records were kept. It was a puzzle with no answer, but for Grace it seemed reasonable to expect Greer to be about thirty—young enough to be beautiful and old enough to be wise. She imagined Greer to be a shining woman of light, a pillar of strength and wisdom, a beautiful image of the Goddess Herself. She would come glowing with the light of the Goddess, robed in gold and silver, tall and graceful and queenly. She would strike awe into people just by her being; her eyes would burn with their intensity. The day of her coming was going to be a glorious, terrible day.

  And yet it all seemed too far away to Grace as she trudged to the stream and back with her water buckets. The Shift and the Bad Time were in the far distant past, living on only in the old stories; the time of the Sibling was in the far future, alive in the Prophecy but still beyond reach. For Grace the world was here and now: the Ruins, the fault, the stream, the colony. Even while she daydreamed of past and future, her feet trod the path of the present, and she lived in only one world. Some of the women commended her for that; some thought her simple because of it. None of it really seemed to matter. The Goddess’ truth would be, whether anyone worried about it or not. Grace was, most of the time, content to do her small duties and trust in the Goddess’ wisdom.

  Delivering her second load of water, Grace picked a ripe fruit from the larder in the kitchen and started back for her third. Going to the stream, she could carry both buckets with one hand and still have one hand free to hold the fruit. The sweet yellow pear was almost too ripe; it gushed juice when she bit into it. The women would have to dry the remaining fruit before it spoiled. Grace hadn’t realized fall was so close; the days slipped by, one like another, and the seasons passed almost unnoticed. Fall meant pumpkins and potatoes and all the things that could be dried or stored until next spring. It meant collecting firewood and sitting around the fire, drinking warm spiced ciders; it meant long nights for sewing and story-telling and staring at the snow on the far off mountain peaks.

  She had never been outside of the valley—had never been to the edge of it, for that matter—but had heard old stories of how people used to ride in strange, powerful carts that sped along the ground or flew through the air. These carts, they said, could go so fast that one could reach the far mountains in a tiny fraction of a day’s time, instead of the many days it would take to walk. Grace wasn’t sure if she believed these stories or not; she had never heard anyone say they had ever seen one of the carts. It seemed a wonderful story, but almost too fabulous to believe.

  Reaching the stream for the third time that morning, she set her buckets under the waterfall and licked the last of the pear juice from her fingers. The pear core itself she set beside the stream for the birds or small animals that gleaned for food there. She knew tomorrow it would be gone. She whispered a silent prayer to the Goddess for the pear, the stream, and the animals. All things were part of the Goddess, and the Goddess was part of all things. The world was a giant puzzle in which all things fit in their proper place. That was the way and the wisdom of the Goddess.

  When she returned to the Ruins with her third load of water, Grace was surprised to see the women scurrying about like ants in the great kitchen. Only Pat, as usual, remained calm.

  “There are people coming,” Pat said to Grace’s unasked question. “They will be here by midday. Hurry with the last of the water. We must make extra bread today.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Grace said. People coming! She retrieved her empty buckets from the women and flew down to the stream, running for speed, hopping in the hope of seeing where the strangers came from. They didn’t often get visitors; once or twice a year at the most. And those that did come were all very strange, very different. They wore odd colors of clothes, or wrapped or sewed them differently; they spoke strangely, with what Pat called accents, or could not be understood at all. They came for news of the Sibling, beseeching Pat to tell them when and how her fabled sister Greer would come to deliver them from darkness. Pat always said the same thing: “The Sibling will come in the Goddess’ time, not yours or mine.”

  At first her inability—or unwillingness—to name the time would disappoint them, sadden them, even anger them. Grace had seen some cry or wail or pound fists upon the tables. There had been some who threatened Pat, who would hurl curses at her if their more rational companions had not restrained them. No one could ever be sure what strangers would do, but their appearance at the edge of the valley was always an exciting, apprehensive event. Grace set her buckets under the waterfall and bounced impatiently on her toes, hurrying the water so she could get back and be part of the preparations. She did not want to miss an instant of the strangers’ visit.

  When she returned to the kitchen for the last time, she gave her water over to Erin and went to stand near Pat as her mother said a small prayer over the unbaked bread. Pat took a pinch of coarsely ground flour and scattered it in the fire that burned beneath the oven chamber, murmuring thanks to the Goddess for Her many blessings. Grace kept a respectful silence as the last of the flour was sprinkled into the fire and was consumed. The fire flared up for an instant in acknowledgement, then burned down again. Pat gathered up rags with which to slide the heavy tray into the oven.

  “Mother,” Grace said on the long breath she’d been holding, “what may I do now? For the visitors?”

  Pat did not answer immediately, but seemed to find fault with the bread tray and moved it minutely.

  “The front room needs sweeping,” she said. “Do a thorough job, and get the corners especially. I don’t want to see any cobwebs anywhere when you’re done.” She straightened, finally satisfied with the tray, and closed the wide oven door. Turning to Grace, she gave more instructions with a tight look on her hard face. “Bring extra rugs into the room, first making sure they are not dusty, and cover the floor. It looks like a large group coming; I doubt we’ll have enough benches for all.”

  Grace nodded at each new instruction, pleased her mother would give her so much responsibility. Usually when strangers came, Pat insisted that Grace continue with her regular chores so as to be out of the way of the preparations, which also meant out of the way of most of the visiting. This time, it seemed, Grace would be an accepted part of it all.

  “When you’ve done all that,” Pat continued, “go out and kill five of the biggest birds we have. Make sure you thank the Goddess properly before each one. Do you know the words?”

  Shocked, Grace nodded. She’d never been allowed to slaughter an animal before, although she’d gone with women to help and knew the procedure. This was a special day. “Yes,” she answered a little hesitantly. “I know the words.”

  Pat looked hard at her daughter. “Can you do it? If not, say so and I’ll send another.”

  “No, I can do it,” Grace swallowed. “Five, you said?”

  “The five biggest. Except not that big red one. She’s too old. Kill them and pluck them, then give them to Nidia. When all that is done, come see what else there might be.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Grace spun on a bare heel and almost ran to the broom closet. She picked out the big broom and toted it to the huge front room. She had never really understood what purpose this room had served before the Shift; Pat had said it was a waiting room of sorts, for people who were going to pay their tokens to the Ruins. Why people should have to wait to do that, Grace didn’t know. The room was large, though with a big fireplace at one end and great banks of now open windows all along the front. Most of the rough-hewn tables and benches were pushed against a side wall; the colony only used five tables
normally to feed their number. Grace planned to sweep and dust, then pull out the extra tables as she had seen done before when strangers came. If Pat thought there would not be enough seats for all, it would be a big gathering. As Grace worked and planned, her excitement mounted. She felt lightheaded with her good fortune—being allowed to take part in so unusual a gathering—and said a quick, quiet prayer of thanks to the Goddess. Then she threw herself into the work at hand.

  The room was so large that Grace had trouble getting it clean. If she swept too vigorously, she sent up clouds of dust that had to settle before she could sweep again. Quickly she learned that speed meant more work, and slowed her pace. When she’d finished sweeping, she dusted all the tables and benches, the fireplace, the windowsills, then swept again. She inspected the room with a mind to her mother and decided even Pat would have to admit it was clean. She put away her broom and rags and wrestled the heavy tables into a gathering pattern, arching them from the front table where Pat would sit. No one had to ask what the strangers came for; everyone knew they came to ask about the Sibling. Grace arranged the tables and benches so everyone would have some view of her mother’s place. Beyond that, she hauled down some of the heavy, rolled rugs, shook them free of dust outside, and placed them over the hardwood floor. When she was done, the room looked as presentable as she’d ever seen it.

  Now the birds. Grace’s throat tightened instinctively at the magnitude of this task. Never had she been allowed to kill anything before. Not that she’d wanted to, but the proper taking of the life of another of the Goddess’ creatures was a critical responsibility. Although a natural part of any being’s existence on the planet, ending another life had to be performed along strict rituals or the Goddess would be angered. It was not something to be taken simply or to perform lightly. Half proud, half nervous, Grace walked the path to the bird pen.

  Standing silently outside the pen, she watched the birds and calculated which ones would be best for her needs. Although their wings were clipped so they could not fly, the birds were still large, strong animals and could scratch with beak or claw, or buffet one painfully with their wings. She hoped to do this with a minimum of trouble, both for her sake and the birds’.

  Entering the pen, she let the birds scatter around her, then settle back into their quick, jerky strut about the edges of the pen. She decided on her first choice and walked carefully to it, moving smoothly and unerringly. The bird ducked away from her into a corner of the pen where she caught it easily with a quick hand about its neck. Once caught, it struggled briefly, then quieted when she held it firmly against her body. She carried it out of the pen and to a sorry-looking shed.

  The knife she sought was in its place, bracketed to the wall of the shed. She unsheathed it and took it and the bird back outside to a weathered table. Setting the knife down, she gazed deeply into the eye of the unmoving bird and began her prayer of thanks, of compassion, to the Goddess.

  “Oh, Goddess, whose light and creations are beautiful, I thank You for this animal who will die for me so I may live. I thank You for its blood, its breath, its life, its death. I know this animal is a unique being in the universe, never to live in the same way again, yet is a part of Your spirit and so will live always. I thank You for this gift of life, and promise to You that it shall not be meaningless.”

  Raising her eyes from the bird to the wide, blue sky, Grace closed a hand around the neck of the animal, gripped firmly and wrenched, breaking the neck of the bird cleanly. The animal went limp for a heartbeat, then twitched spasmodically. Grace breathed a small extra thanks that she had been able to do the job quickly and cleanly; she had seen women miscalculate and cripple a bird without killing it immediately, and she found that she had taken on the animal’s pain as her own. Luckily—or by favor of the Goddess—she had been able to learn the proper action without fumbling the first time. The bird had given up its soul without struggle, without pain. Taking the knife, Grace cut off the head and neck and left the carcass draped over the side of the table to bleed itself.

  After her first success, she thought the rest of the chore would be easy. It was not. The second bird squawked and fluttered, fighting for its life in a panicky way that troubled Grace’s sensitivity. When she stared into the animal’s wild, unseeing eyes, she saw fear and confusion, a mental anguish that pierced her heart. She almost let the bird go and chose another, but a surprising resolve strengthened her. She said the killing prayer over the animal in a strong, clear voice; this bird was beloved of the Goddess in its fear, in its strength. She praised it for its grasp on life and entreated it to accept death as fervently. When she twisted its neck, it seemed the animal heard and obeyed; it died soundlessly.

  After that, Grace was aware enough of each animal’s distinct separateness not to expect anything but uniqueness from each one. She chose each bird, watched it, felt its being with her mind and heart, prayed over it as its spirit required, and took its life. When she was done, the five bedraggled carcasses brought a deep sadness to her and yet she knew the birds were no longer part of those battered, mutilated bodies, but were free of their physical restraints and were shining sparks of the Goddess’ light. The conflicting emotions disturbed her but she shrugged into them as a winter visitor shrugs into a heavy coat. The way of the Goddess was not without pain, without sacrifice or sadness. But it was Truth. And she could live with Truth.

  As the last bird bled, Grace began to pluck the first. Her sensitivity returned to the physical. Visitors were coming, and visitors deserved a good meal for their effort. There was work to be done. Silently, with a stronger purity of mind, Grace bent to it.

  By the time she’d plucked the last bird to a pale bareness, most of Grace’s normal even temperament had resurfaced. She carried the birds back to the kitchen and turned them over to Nidia.

  “They all look plump and nice,” Nidia observed as she took them.

  “They are all chosen of the Goddess,” Grace remarked. “All very different and all very special.”

  Nidia hesitated in mid-retrieval at Grace’s odd pronouncement. The child looked … different. The light in her gray eyes was darker, deeper.

  “Are you all right, Grace?” Nidia asked in a low voice.

  Grace nodded solemnly. “I’m fine, Aunt Nidia.” She used the title familiarly, as she always had, though Nidia was no relation. “Is there more that I can do to prepare for the visitors?”

  Nidia eyed Grace a moment longer, frowning, then turned away with the birds. “I think Pat needs some things from the garden. Pat?” she called across the kitchen. “Do you want Grace to pick some greens?”

  “Cabbage, onions, and tomatoes,” Pat called back to Grace from the ovens. “And peas. And do it quickly. We’re running out of time.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Grace was out the door before her words dissipated in the humming air of the kitchen.

  Nidia watched her go.

  “Pat,” she said as she began to prepare the birds, “have you ever thought that Grace might not be best suited to marry?”

  Pat was busy pulling baked loaves off a still-hot tray and couldn’t stop to worry about Nidia’s foolish questions. “She’ll do whatever the Goddess will have her do.”

  “Yes, but ...” Nidia paused, puzzled. “She’s not ...” The words wouldn’t form. Nidia shook her head, not even sure anymore what she’d been thinking, what idea she’d been pursuing. Maybe Grace could be a keeper of the Goddess, a priestess. Maybe even a servant of the Sibling. It seemed a disjointed, half-formed thought, like a dream barely remembered, more an emotion than an idea. Nidia shrugged it off. “Never mind.”

  Unconcerned, Pat continued her work at the ovens.

  CHAPTER 2

  Grace did all that Pat asked of her, and did it with unflagging energy. She brought vegetables from the garden, fruit from the grove, and helped set out the rich bounty of food on the tables. When the strangers at last appeared nearing the Ruins, she crowded among the women at the doorway to welcome the visito
rs and see what they looked like.

  Pat’s voice cut her out of the group. “Go tell Abel that they’re here.”

  Momentarily daunted by the fact that she would not be part of the welcoming exchange, Grace still slipped quickly out the kitchen door at her mother’s request. She could run and tell the men and still be back before the discussion and feasting began. From what she had seen, there looked to be almost thirty strangers—a larger group than usually came.

  She had seen the men at the grove earlier, trenching the furrows that brought water to the trees. If they were done with that and had already hauled enough water to set the small canals running, they would be camped in a shady spot seeing to their weapons. Most of them would go out foraging early tomorrow morning, hoping for a large kill that could be cured and stored away. The colony was self-sufficient enough that it should never starve—barring drought or plague—but the tangy taste of wild meat added to the domestic fare.

  Grace ran along the narrow path to the grove and searched the trees for movement. The colony’s clothing was, of necessity, the drab colors of earth and plant, so movement was the only thing that would give away the men’s whereabouts. Grace veered through the heavily laden trees and followed the still-wet furrows to the center of the grove. There she found the men.

  Just less than twenty in number, the men were the minority in the colony. There were no old ones—men had not faired well during the Bad Time. Abel, Pat’s husband, was the oldest and still a decade younger than Pat. His position as eldest man carried some small weight; his position as Pat’s husband carried a small bit more. The Goddess yielded little of Her power to men. Grace had heard stories of how men had ruled once and had been the keepers of knowledge and power. She wasn’t quite sure if the stories were really supposed to be true or if they were simply myths. It seemed so painfully obvious that men had so little of the Goddess’ light in them, how could anyone seriously consider them as leaders or teachers? But, the stories said, people worshipped a God then, a man-power, and of course a man-God would decree man’s dominance. But it all seemed absurd to Grace. How could anyone be blind to the existence of the Goddess? How could anyone refute the light and the power of the Goddess as it shone in and guided women?