Goddess Rising

by Melissa Bowersock

  “It went well,” Balat said when she joined him by the hearthside. It was not a question; he knew.

  “Yes, it went well,” she agreed. “Don’t ask me what Jeh did but he did what was needed.” She met Balat’s eyes levelly. “I had a vision of Jeh weaving on his loom; weaving magic. He will be there for the people when you are gone.”

  Balat nodded once. “I know.”

  Neither one knew where Grace would be at that future time. Not here. That was all that was given to them now.

  If the storms of spring differed from the storms of winter, no one could have said how, but they seemed easier to bear, knowing they would cease in time. Grace took advantage of the bright days and sat Balat and herself in the strengthening sun so they could warm and heal. She left off as many of her chores as she could and used the clear days to rest, often spending hours knee to knee with Balat and talking. When some of the colony children heard them, they came for companionship and stories, and Grace and Balat provided both. Soon it was a standing ritual that on clear, sunny days the smaller children would gather in the yard and be taught and quizzed and entertained by the magical pair. If the cabin were not quite as clean as it could be, neither Grace nor Balat noticed; if they dined on cold, day-old meat, neither cared. The work they did with themselves and the children was still Goddess-work, and they let themselves be so directed. There would be time enough in summer for cleaning and catching up.

  The sunlight even seemed to help Balat’s cough somewhat. Grace rubbed his old thin chest with a breathing potion at night and sat him directly in the sun by day so he might warm through. He still was far too thin and drawn for her liking but he seemed cheerful enough. When she thought him preoccupied, she watched him closely and assessed the changes; his eyes were sunken into folds of dark loose skin and the blue of his eyes was watery and pale. His skin was sallow with a cast to it that disturbed Grace, although she could not say how. He seemed a smaller version of himself, shrunken and pale. If he felt her same misgivings, he did not show it.

  Finally the sunny days outnumbered the dark ones and not only did the snow disappear, but the ground began to dry. As soon as their tools were sharpened, colony people began breaking ground for the new year’s fields. The forest rang with pleasant industry.

  “How many springs have you heard the forest come alive with voices?” Grace asked Balat. With the advent of actual spring work, the children had stopped coming, pressed into small chores by their parents. Grace and Balat sat alone in the yard.

  “If I had been counting, I would have lost track long ago,” he said with a smile. “But the question is really: how many years did the forest ring with voices before me and how many will it afterward?”

  “And the answer is: there is no number,” Grace said.

  They sat a while in silence. Grace heard a jay scolding from a treetop home, and thought perhaps someone had plowed too close to the forest edge of their field for its liking.

  “I have heard,” Balat said, “of a place where an ocean, larger than the land we live on, comes against the shore and breaks in ceaseless waves and that those waves have been breaking there since before the Bad Time, before the Shift, even before the God-worshippers came to be. I had always thought that one day I should like to go see it for myself.”

  He left unsaid the thought that was shared between them, that he would never go anywhere again.

  “Perhaps,” Grace said, “in your next lifetime. Perhaps you may petition the Goddess to send you to that place to be born.”

  Balat laughed. “Yes, perhaps I could do that.” And he became still.

  Grace watched him for a long moment. If he felt her stare, he gave no sign. He looked at ease.

  “Are you afraid?” she asked finally.

  The old man smiled and the wrinkles in his face were as familiar to her as the lines of her own hands; perhaps more so.

  “Some days. Most days I am not, because like you, I belong to the Goddess and She will get me through whatever I must do. But there are some days ...” His voice drifted off. “Not like today, when it is warm and clear, but dark days, damp days, when the clouds look yellow. Some of those days ... I am afraid.”

  He looked out across the forest and breathed deeply of the scented air, then turned back toward Grace and took her hand. “You are the most wonderful daughter,” he said gaily. “What I ever did to deserve you, I don’t know, but you are the sun in my day. I love you like I have loved no other person in my life. You are beautiful, Grace.”

  Caught by surprise, Grace felt tears spring to her eyes and she clasped the man’s old, bony hand in her own. “I am a mere human, like you,” she said, “but thank you. I love you, too, more than any other. If I am special, your love has made me so. I would not be what I am without you.”

  “Someday,” he said, patting her hand, “you will understand just how special you are. You are like no one else on this planet, Grace. You will truly be the messenger of the Goddess.”

  Grace accepted his prediction calmly. “I will be whatever She wills,” she said. “Now I think it is time we had our noon meal. Stay here in the sun and I will bring it to you.”

  As the days lengthened and warmed, Grace began to go afield in search of new plants and roots for Balat’s medicines. The sicknesses of the winter had almost depleted much of his store and he was anxious to replenish it. Grace extracted a promise from him that he would do no heavy work, then would pack herself a small meal and wander the countryside. At first her trips were shortened by worry for him but when she saw that he knew his limits and kept safely within them during her absence, she went further afield and for longer periods. By the time the first green shoots of the fields were ankle-high and thriving, she might be gone all of one day, then stay home the next. Any tension she felt over leaving Balat was dispelled by his childlike excitement when she came home and showed him all her discoveries. Then she knew he would be wonderfully pleased for many days as he ground and mixed and aged his medicines and she was content to go off again.

  During her walks, she went further afield than she’d ever gone alone before and explored places that were entirely new. She found a great bluff at the southwestern edge of the forest where the land had raised up a great long bench, forest and all, and the exposed sediment below was laid bare to her eyes. She walked to the southeast through endless forest and saw, far away, great mountains that seemed to speak to her with chills up her spine. She roamed east, past the fields and parklands, past the last trails of the colony, to a place where the forest thinned away into a basin of long, rolling hills and plains.

  When she returned from her walks and gave Balat his gifts, she also brought him her questions about the places she’d been. He was familiar with most of them, if not personally then anecdotally, and they discussed the land and the changes it had undergone. The great bluff that had rifted up from the lower plain was, he thought, a product of the Shift. The far mountains he had not seen but thought others had been there and had found people nearby. The treeless basin seemed also relatively new and, he thought, could be a sign that weather patterns were still changing and that the forest someday would be gone. There seemed no end to the wonder and knowledge and changes of the world and Grace and Balat pored over all of it together.

  One day on her walking—her legs were so long now, she covered ground quite quickly—she came to the great rift and began to explore along its foot. Along the bottom edge, a seasonal streambed ran, although it was dry now. Grace examined the face of the rift wall and noted the marks of watercourses down it and guessed the stream was only active after a rain. She explored along the sandy bed, looking for the small rock succulent that Balat prized for its healing properties. The rise of the escarpment towered above her, the forest along the top dwarfed by the distance. The face of the cliff itself was a haphazard composition of sedimentary layers, some level, some at odd angles, and interspersed throughout were the marks of a world in chaos—here a layer of gray ash compressed to rock hardn
ess, there the convolutions of a fault, frozen in the throes of its seizure. The cliff spoke to Grace as an old one around a winter fire, talking of the Bad Time and the Shift, and the placid time before. She read its stories in the lines and colors of the rock, and marveled at its magic.

  A shadow high above caught her eye. Standing a little away from the cliff, she saw it wasn’t merely a shadow but a cave. The sun, standing high in the sky, slanted down obliquely and threw the cave into shadow, as well as some of the eroded levels of rock below it. A curious excitement gripped Grace. She stepped back further still, examining the cliff face for shadows, knowing now that those shadows rimmed ledges and the ledges led to the cave. One by one she found the shadow-edged levels and followed them with her eyes to another, higher, and another. Before very long she thought she had mapped out a full chart of ledges that would take her to the cave. Needing the sun to delineate those ledges for her and knowing the sun’s movement could erase a shadow anytime, she began to climb.

  Quickly she found out that the shadows themselves were aslant and depicted a ledge wider than was actually there. She had to search for finger-holds and toe-holds, sometimes hanging on almost by her fingernails alone as she searched for her next ledge. The rocks, sun-baked and water-eroded, were often so brittle they crumbled under her weight and she sent showers of stones down to the streambed and even had small ledges disintegrate in her grasp, spraying her face with gravel. She learned quickly to be sure of one grip before she loosened another. At one point she found herself wishing her feet were still as small as they had been just a year ago so she would fit better on the tiny ledges! But she was no longer a half-wild girl, too naive to know what risks she took, so she climbed slowly and carefully.

  Halfway to the cave—only halfway! she groaned inwardly—she found a rock succulent firmly entrenched in a crevice and she wondered if she could pry it off without sending herself sprawling. She looked down and estimated she’d climbed above five man-heights—enough to be dangerous if she fell. And the cave was almost as far still above her. She’d need her strength to make the rest of the climb, but this was the only succulent she’d seen today and Balat was always so pleased when she brought him one. She couldn’t pass it by.

  Concentrating, slow and deliberate, she tested the succulent to see how firmly its roots grasped the cliff; its grip was appreciable but not unbreakable. She shifted in her toe-holds, getting as much rock beneath the balls of her feet as she could, increasing her leverage. That done, she tightened her handhold on the ledge above her, then got a firm grip on the fleshy plant. Little by little she tugged on the succulent, the heel of her hand braced against the cliff so that if the plant came loose abruptly she would not fall backward off the ledge. Slowly, with agonizing care, she pulled on the plant, pulled and rocked it in its root bed, pulled again. A shower of dislodged grit spilled out from the crevice, rushing down the cliff face in a clattering cascade. The plant was coming, but it was slow work.

  Sweat seeped out on Grace’s body, slicking her fingers. With the utmost care, she withdrew her hold on the plant and wiped her hand on the rough cloth of her tunic. Then she began again. The sun was arcing above her and she worried that she would lose the shadows before she was done. Pull, rock sideways, pull. The plant seemed to have a taproot that went forever.

  She was seriously considering giving up when the plant loosened appreciably. One last tug, she thought, and if it wouldn’t come she’d leave it and maybe try again on the way down. One last tug—and it came free.

  Pleased that her effort had paid off, she dropped the plant into a pocket of her tunic and reassessed her climb.

  The cliff face towered above her. After her small but hard-won victory with the succulent, the challenge of the remaining climb was daunting. She could always quit and try again another day. She looked down. The ground seemed endlessly far away. No, after all this climbing today, she could not give up.

  The shadows were disappearing. She was tempted to rush, but cautioned herself against it. If she could still feel her way, there was no need to hurry.

  Perhaps that resolve and what she had learned already about working the cliff face aided her, for the remaining climb seemed to go easier, faster. Or perhaps it was just the Goddess smiling on her, she thought. In any event, in quite a bit shorter time than it had taken to reach the succulent, she pulled herself onto the ledge that floored the cave. Dusty, tired but pleased, she said a small prayer of thanks and looked around.

  The cave was empty. Several spans deep, its shade was much cooler than the sun-warmed air, and Grace moved into it gratefully. She could stand easily and brushed the tips of her fingers along the ceiling. Too shallow for bats and inaccessible to all other animals, the cave was clean of refuse and debris. It was open, empty—just waiting for a tenant. Feeling quite comfortable—and welcome—Grace moved in.

  She ate her midday meal there and rearranged her pack so the fleshy succulent would fit without crushing the juice from its thick leaves. Then she sat quietly and looked out over the land.

  Across the chasm left by the upheaval of her bluff, the forest seemed small and far away. She could look across the top of the green canopy for a great distance—almost to the horizon—and there, faint in the haze, could see a band of tan that signaled the end of the forest and the start of some new land. So that was the southern edge of Balat’s forest. She wondered if he had ever been there.

  She liked this cave; she liked the vision it gave her. This one suited her much better than the one in the giant rock, although that one had obviously fulfilled its purpose. She wondered what spirit journeys she might embark upon from here.

  Glancing up at the sky, she saw it was much too late in the day to find out now. She needed to start back. A hawk, circling lazily on the upper currents of air, caught her eye. How wonderful to be able to fly like that and not have to climb! Well, there was nothing for it. She gathered her things and started down.

  She would return, though; she knew that. Knowing that gave her an idea. It might take longer, but it would save some time—and strength—later. On the way down, she kept her knife in the waistband of her tunic and very gently improved the hand holds she found. If she did that every time she climbed the cliff, she would eventually have nice little steps.

  She told Balat about the cave when she returned home and he seemed as pleased about it as she. He was overjoyed with the fresh succulent and didn’t seem the least concerned that it was the only plant she brought him. He was already preparing his bowls and bottles and grinding tools when she dropped off to sleep that night.

  She didn’t get back to the cave as much as she would have liked, but she did find it again on occasions when it seemed more important to be alone to think than to gather plants. Once during the early summer she stayed the night there and passed most of her sleeping time in the spirit realm. She couldn’t remember her journeys—all except the first one, to Balat, to tell him not to worry—but felt strongly that she’d traveled. She wondered if she would ever be able to remember those special dreams. If so, it would be in the Goddess’ time, not hers. She’d have to be content with that.

  And she was.

  CHAPTER 14

  One day in late spring Balat sat in his chair in the yard and watched Grace spread plants and slivered fruits on a rock for drying. She could do it better than he, now; her fingers were so nimble and his were not. Watching her gave him pleasure.

  “The sun is so warm already, these will dry quickly,” she said as she worked.

  “Yes, this seems to be a hot beginning to our summer. Perhaps the Goddess is trying to balance out the cold of this last winter.”

  “Perhaps,” Grace said cheerfully as she laid out the last greens. Then she took her chair beside Balat and closed her eyes, breathing in the aromatic air of forest and fruit.

  “Speaking of balance,” Balat said conversationally, “the equinox is not far away. That is the day Kamala and James will marry.”

  “Oh?” Grace kne
w the lovers, knew they had pledged themselves to each other. She had not known the time for it would be so soon. “Why that day?” she asked.

  “It is an omen we cultivate that if a couple weds on the day of balance between day and night then their marriage will be balanced and harmonious.” He looked sideways at her. “As wise-woman, you must officiate.”

  “Wise-woman?” Grace laughed. “Kamala is a year older than me at least, and James more than that. How can I be wise-woman to them?”

  Balat shrugged cheerfully. “In whatever way you must, I suppose. There are preparations to make, though. Have you ever seen a wedding?”

  Something tingled at the back of Grace’s mind, but when she reached for the memories, they were not there. “I don’t know.”

  “No matter. There is a sequence of events, though, that you must understand. First there is the funeral.”

  “Funeral for whom?”

  “Kamala and James. We recognize that a wedding is a passage and that the individuals die as children and are newly born as a couple, as mature people in relationship. So the funeral is first, then the burial, several days for grieving, then the wedding.”

  “All right,” Grace said, intrigued. “What must I do?”

  Over the next few days Balat instructed Grace in the rituals and for a brief time she was a child again and he the all-wise teacher. For those days she felt young and enthusiastic again and she saw in him a return to his time of power and ability. They went over the rituals again and again, completely absorbed in what they were doing, almost lost to time in their concentration. When Balat pronounced her sufficiently fluent in the applications, she almost felt as if they’d been on a spirit journey and she felt disoriented.

  “Keep that, as much as you can,” he told her. “You have been so saturated these last days that you may retain some trance. Keep as much as you can while still being able to function. It will make it easier for you to slip into the guise of wise-woman later and to allow the Goddess to use you to mirror the individual needs of James and Kamala. Let the Goddess guide your words and actions.”