Goddess Rising

by Melissa Bowersock

She stopped, looking over the scores of faces that turned adoring eyes on her.

  “Within Your great cycle,” she went on, “we would begin a new order that will turn as You turn, and wheel as You wheel. We would create a new world out of the rubble of the old. We would build a world like unto Your universe, where all things are possible, where all things have a place, where no thing, great or small, living or unliving, is without purpose. We would build a world of harmony and respect and truth—and we would begin that great work ... today.”

  The sun bloomed on the horizon and starred the day with its brilliant rays. One ray struck Greer and she seemed haloed in golden fire. Another struck the crystal and blazed white.

  “The Goddess!” someone screamed. “There—in the rock. It is the face of the Goddess!”

  “The Goddess! The Goddess!”

  As more and more people took up the cry, chaos swept through the assembly. Some pointed with a fixed stare at the strange stone that had seemed to reveal Her likeness in its dynamic two-sided face. Some, keening in fear or adoration, sank to their knees or collapsed into tears. Later, the stories would be confused, a jumble of miracles and omens and blessings. She had appeared in the stone; She had flown overhead on wings of sky and wind; She had spoken from the stone, blessed these people, laid kisses of gold on their sun-starred cheeks. The stories were boundless in their variety, endless in their combinations, and each one was truth to that mind that saw it so. Each person that was there that morning carried his or her own Truth from that day forward, and, contradictory as one might be from another, no one could argue any of them away. From that day forward there was a new feeling of esteem among the people, of respect.

  They had begun to live the New Order.

  More people came to the valley after that, some with surprisingly magical stories of the solstice during their journey. They were absorbed easily into the colony, settling in and rolling up sleeves to begin their great work.

  The walls of the sanctuary went higher.

  Greer found Abel to be more and more competent as she depended on him more and more for management of the workings of the colony. There were enough people now that she and Hannah were no longer required to fill in gaps in duty areas but could cheerfully turn their hands to whatever they chose. Abel had a keen awareness for how many and what personalities would do best at a given task, and as Greer’s overseer-designate, he was rarely challenged. What was clear to Greer, however, was more the fact that Abel’s decisions were good ones and that no one seemed unhappy with the task given them. Even those designations of Abel’s that seemed inappropriate or peculiar at first turned out well. He had a keen sense for matching a person to a job and intuited correctly more often than not.

  In the long, golden days after the solstice, Greer was content. Newcomers sought her out for assurances and blessings but otherwise her time was her own. Not much given to gathering plants with Hannah or to cooking, she found a quiet contentment in sewing and would do some of it almost daily. Fine detail work pleased her and she found pleasure in sitting in the shade outside, a robe in her lap, and making the small, fine stitches that decorated hem or sleeve. Erin had refreshed her memory, retutoring her in the stitches she had learned as a child, and often the two of them would spend an afternoon together, heads bent over their work. It became one of Greer’s pleasures to sew quietly alone.

  One still morning she and Hannah sat inside the shade of their hut as the air outside warmed rapidly in the full glare of the sun. Later, when the afternoon breezes sprang up, it would be more comfortable outside.

  Abel’s shadow fell across the open doorway and merged with the dark hut floor. He came most days to speak to Greer about the way things were going.

  “Good morning,” he greeted the women.

  “Good morning,” they both answered back, lifting their eyes to him. It was only then they saw Kyra was with him.

  “Good morning,” Kyra said, dipping a bit in deference to Greer, but it was Hannah’s eyes she sought. As soon as Hannah smiled to her, the child loosed her hold on her father’s hand and ran to her and Hannah, laughing, made room for Kyra on her chair. Greer smiled at Abel and shrugged. Sibling or not, she couldn’t draw the girl’s adoration as Hannah did, and that was as it would be. Abel, however, seemed less accepting although he said nothing.

  “How is the new family?” Greer asked, referring to the newcomers who had arrived the day before. “Are they settled?”

  “Well enough,” Abel said. “Nidia is not quite sure what to do with the woman, since the kitchens are already full but the woman seems to know nothing of other work. The man is a wood-worker, and fashions all sorts of things from wood— tables, chairs, cabinets. He’s asked if he could make furnishings for the sanctuary.”

  “That would be very nice,” Greer nodded. “I had not thought much beyond the building of the walls. Why don’t you ask him to come talk with me this afternoon?”

  “All right.” Abel agreed quickly enough but seemed out of sorts. He had not relaxed his stance at all and flicked his eyes frequently to Kyra beside Hannah. “Other than that, things go well enough,” he said.

  “Thanks to you, Abel,” Greer assured him.

  Complimented, yet still ill at east, Abel seemed unsure how to respond. Finally he made a small bow to her and called for Kyra.

  “I want to stay with Hannah,” the child announced.

  “No,” Abel said, strain in his voice, “come with me.”

  “But, Daddy—”

  “I said no, Kyra.”

  Thinking to ease Abel’s mind, Hannah interceded. “It’s all right, Abel. I certainly don’t mind.”

  “Yes, Daddy, Hannah says it’s all right,” Kyra was quick to reiterate.

  Instead of making Abel’s decision easier, Hannah’s assurances only seemed to displease him more.

  Greer put down her sewing. “What is it, Abel? What’s wrong?”

  Sighing heavily, Abel shook his head. “Maren won’t like it,” he said finally.

  “Won’t like—what?” Greer asked.

  Abel chose his words carefully, all too aware that his daughter listened as intently as the two women. “She doesn’t want Kyra to—to take up Hannah’s time,” he said, yet the two women could hear other words behind the ones he spoke. Maren didn’t want Kyra to spend time with Hannah.

  “Why not?” Greer asked softly, puzzled. She knew this was difficult for Abel.

  “She—she’s very proud,” Abel said. “She’s a good mother. She can’t help it if she’s not very ... affectionate.”

  Greer saw it now. Maren’s motherly instincts were low enough that the woman perceived Hannah’s overflowing love for children as a threat. She was afraid she would lose her daughter to the midwife. Couple that with the fact that Maren had felt cheated out of the leadership position by Nidia and that her mate was now Greer’s right hand man; was it any wonder she drew the line at her daughter’s adoration of Hannah? All the things she’d perceived as hers had been eroded away by Greer and her followers. And then the incident with the bowl ...

  “I understand,” Greer said, “and you must do as you must, Abel.” Privately she wondered how happy he could be with a woman who placed all her esteem on things outside of herself and then blamed her unhappiness on others. But it was not for Greer to intervene.

  Perhaps, though, Abel realized the same things as Greer and knew that Kyra’s adoration for Hannah had little to do with Maren’s happiness. “Maybe,” he said slowly, “she can stay—but only for a little while. Then she must go back to the Ruins.”

  Obviously delighted, Kyra hugged Hannah. Hannah and Greer both applauded Abel with smiling eyes.

  “Thank you, Abel,” Hannah said. “I promise I won’t keep her long.”

  Still uncomfortable with his difficult decision, Abel shoved his hands into his pockets and walked to the door. He paused once, looked over at the women, shrugged and walked out.

  “What are you doing?” Kyra asked Hannah. All tr
ace of tension had disappeared from the child as soon as her father had relented.

  “I’m sewing this pocket back on,” Hannah said, showing Kyra the torn garment. “Do you like to sew?”

  Kyra shook her head, then with three-year-old candor said, “I don’t know how.”

  “Well, maybe when you are older, your mother will teach you.”

  Kyra shrugged. Apparently sewing was of no interest to her. “Where did you come from?” she asked instead.

  “Far to the northwest,” Hannah said, gesturing. “A place beyond the mountains.”

  “Do you have any daughters?”

  “No,” Hannah frowned. “I have no children.”

  “Why not?”

  Hannah laughed. “You certainly do ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

  “Is that bad?”

  Hannah and Greer looked at each other and laughed.

  “No,” Greer said, “that is not bad. What’s bad is when people stop asking questions. You’re fine.”

  Kyra did her best to digest that information, but it was difficult for the three-year-old and she finally gave up. Instead she went back to her queries.

  “What’s that?” She touched a pudgy finger lightly to the odd mark on Hannah’s neck.

  “That’s a scar,” Hannah said. “You know how you hurt yourself and then it heals and leaves a scar?”

  Kyra knew. “How did you hurt yourself?”

  For a moment the hut was silent. Both Greer and Hannah sewed carefully.

  Finally Hannah answered. “It was an accident.”

  Greer put down her sewing. “No, Hannah. Tell her the truth. I don’t believe children need to hear less than the truth.”

  Hannah put down her work and, glancing at Greer, silently concurred. She set her sewing aside and took Kyra into her lap.

  “When I first met Greer, she thought I was foolish and crazy. She didn’t believe that I would devote myself solely to her. She tried to kill me.”

  Kyra flashed nervous eyes from Hannah to Greer, and squirmed slightly. She gripped Hannah’s tunic with small, tight fists.

  Greer took up the story, calmly, so Kyra would not be frightened. “I was going to test her faith,” she explained. “I put my knife to her throat and expected her to cry and beg for mercy. She did not. Her faith was so strong, she would have died for her convictions, so I let her live.” Greer met Kyra’s eyes. “Do you understand all that?”

  Kyra squirmed a little under Greer’s steady gaze, then nodded uneasily.

  “Not many people will die for what they believe in,” Greer went on. “Hannah is one, and that is why I keep her with me.” She paused, following a thought. “Hannah would die for you; would you die for her?”

  Shocked, Hannah’s head snapped up, her eyes flashing silent objection to the demands of the question. Greer stilled her with a look.

  Kyra seemed oblivious to the byplay. She chewed on her lower lip and thought hard. Once she looked up at Hannah, and Hannah gave her a look of loving acceptance, the child made her decision.

  “Yes,” she told Greer in a firm voice. “I would die for her.” Then she pressed closer to Hannah and Hannah held her tightly.

  Greer regarded Kyra calmly. “Then you have the strength and will to be an instrument of the Goddess and may come to greatness.” She leaned forward and impaled Kyra with her eyes. “You may become anything you wish to be. Do you understand? You can do anything.”

  Kyra chewed her lip again. Her small, dark eyes jumped from object to object around the room.

  “I want to ...” she paused, thinking, then exploded with resolve, “climb the mountains!”

  Both Greer and Hannah chuckled at the three-year-old translation of the Sibling’s proclamation and Kyra giggled along with them. The great, heavy tension that had filled the hut began to dissipate.

  Hannah spoke first. “And so you shall!” she told Kyra. “When you are older.”

  “Now!” Kyra insisted, emboldened by the spirit of the conversation.

  “No.” Greer shook her head, and Kyra’s playfulness calmed. “Not now. Now you must be a three-year-old, and do as your mother says. But when you are older … remember.”

  “All right,” Kyra nodded.

  Hannah shifted in her chair. “Now you must return to the Ruins and see what your mother would have you do.” She went to lift Kyra down, but the girl hugged her tightly.

  “I love you, Hannah.”

  For a moment, Hannah held the child to her, her arms tight around her. Fiercely she said, “I love you, too.” Then she set the girl on the ground. “Now go.”

  Reluctant, dawdling, the child edged toward the door. Once there, she appealed to Hannah with a pleading look. Hannah shook her head.

  Sighing, Kyra looked to the Ruins. Then, as much as she was able, she squared her little shoulders. “I’ll remember,” she said, and walked out the door.

  Hannah and Greer just looked at each other.

  CHAPTER 23

  It didn’t take long before the story of Hannah’s scar had been told and retold in every area of the valley, and came home to the hut markedly different than when it had left. Only Abel—and Kyra—would speak directly about it, but Abel reported that the tale had been embellished with all sorts of magic and mystery. The women told Abel the bare truth, much as they had Kyra, and he simply ingested it, cast aside the embellishments and went on with the business of the colony.

  With others it was not so simple or clear cut. Hannah noticed people stealing glances at her throat whenever she was out in the colony and Greer saw new fear in the eyes of some who looked at her. They both knew people would believe what they would and made no attempt to correct the rumors. Anyone who, like Abel, asked for the truth would be given it, but the rest were left to entertain themselves with their own imaginings. It was of no interest to the women.

  The walls of the sanctuary went higher and Greer collaborated with the woodworker, Ankutse, on the furnishings. Together they drew plans for the pallets that would serve as beds, for chairs, benches and tables, and Ankutse could thereafter be found chiseling away at his wood or poring over the bark and charcoal drawings. Some of the women had begun to weave tapestries for the inside walls of the sanctuary and they could often be seen wandering the unfinished construction, sizing up walls and imagining colors. In time, there seemed as much going on inside the sanctuary as outside.

  The tempo of the entire valley increased. It was as if everyone worked harder, faster, more intensely, without ever having been asked. Often in the silence of night, Greer could feel a deep, silent pounding, as if the heart of the colony labored even as the people rested. It pulsed through her like the vibrations of a far off drum, and she realized it drove her, too, in her tasks.

  One day the intensity seemed to run particularly high and Greer felt herself edgy and restless. Ankutse, bearing his own relentless drive, became the butt of her temper when he brought an unclear charcoal drawing to her three times for clarification. Vexed almost to a breaking point, Greer was able to hold in her impatience, but not graciously, and Ankutse skittered away to his woodworking as quickly as he could take his leave.

  Greer paced the tiny hut, then stood restlessly at the window as Ankutse’s retreating form—bark drawing in hand—hurried away.

  “I’ve scared the poor man away with my impatience,” she said to Hannah. “I don’t know what this edge of intensity is, but I must apologize to him—when I feel more at ease.” She turned and, leaning her back against the wall, sighed. “What is it that drives all of us to this frenzy? And why is it that you alone seem immune to it?”

  Hannah put aside her medicines and gave Greer’s question considerable thought. “I am not sure,” she answered finally. “It only seems to me that you and everyone else in the colony are trying so hard to get somewhere, to achieve something—and I have nowhere to go, nothing to achieve. I have found my place. Before, when I was younger, I was driven in such a way as you seem to be, but I was driven to find
you and I have done that. I am at peace now.”

  Greer sat down across from Hannah and stared into her friend’s clear, brown eyes as if secrets hid there. “I wonder if I will have such peace as that ever in my life.”

  Hannah returned her stare for a short moment, then looked away. “I ... I do not know, Greer. Only the Goddess knows.”

  “True enough,” Greer sighed, and stood up to resume her pacing. “So until that time—if there is one—I must cope with this damnable restlessness. I must remember to apologize to Ankutse.”

  Hannah turned back to her potions but followed Greer’s thought. “You know, I have heard stories of the time before the Shift and I remember hearing that people then did not write on bark, but had very thin, pliable sheets of something. And that they had instruments of charcoal or another material to write with, and the writing or pictures stayed clear. I wonder what it was they used?”

  “I have heard such stories, also,” Greer said, turning, “when I was small. I had forgotten.” She stared down at the packed earth floor, her eyes bright but unfocused with the effort of remembering. “I remember ... something.”

  Her head snapped up suddenly. “Have you ever seen a book?”

  “A book?” Hannah was almost frightened by the abrupt question. “No.”

  “I have! My ... sister showed me some once, when I was very small. They had very thin leaves, as you said, and the writing was clear and permanent. And pictures ... they had pictures of things, not drawings, really, but ... images. It was just like seeing something with your own eyes, not like someone else’s drawing at all. Books!”

  Almost as if that single word were a catalyst, suddenly all of Greer’s nebulous energy became focused on a single idea, and it lanced down into a point of startling intensity. On fire with it, she paced anxiously as she talked.

  “How thoughtless I have been! So much was lost during the Shift and we’ve been so painfully slow at rediscovering it. If we had books, they could tell us what we have lost and show us how to get it back!”

  Hannah was almost afraid to put herself in the line of Greer’s train of thought. “But are there such things anymore? I’ve never seen one. Do they still exist?”