Fairy Godmothers of The Four Directions

by Jennifer Morse

  A panorama unfolded. Her concentration navigating the narrow ledge focused on the infinitesimal details required for safety. Had the owl been a warning, a harbinger, of the dangerous crossing? A gorge and the rope bridge five hundred feet high, above a river crashing through rocks the size of a cabin.

  Approaching the bridge each step Cinderella took was heavy with caution. Steeling herself to look down she saw turquoise water, topped with foaming white, roaring over rocks; creating a micro climate of fog. “Yikes!” she squeaked.

  The raw beauty was enormous. It crashed through her body and soul. Leaving her shaken, questioning her abilities, and the courage she would summon to make the crossing. She could feel the temperature dropping. Time was running out. She bit her lip and grabbed the rope to stand on the first wooden plank.

  “How long has this rope hung suspended in space? Wouldn’t the constant moisture erode the fiber?” Grasses grew tall at the edge. “Surprising,” Cinderella muttered.

  Holding the twisted rope handles she watched the wooden ladder as it clattered in the river’s roar. The volume assaulted her. In her turmoil she heard the overpowering attacks of her stepmother belittling her.

  Shouting at herself and her stepmother, “Stop it! Don’t go there! How do criticisms, eroding-attacking, help me in this moment?”

  Thunder rumbled in the afternoon build-up of clouds. Cinderella shook her fist and yelled, “This is so cliché! Really? Bad weather! A rope bridge?”

  Honestly the gorge and turquoise water was so breathtaking a small part of her forgot to be scared. Her sparkling chain, “Can I actually see sparks?” Snuggled close, the light pressure reminding her she wasn’t alone, made her feel secure. “Don’t tell me my new best friend is a magical golden-silver rope.”

  Anticipating the coming rain she opened her pack she took out the waxed canvas poncho, slipping it over her head. Time was running out. Temperamental weather and night pushed her in a race against time. She couldn’t afford to let her fear stop her. Nasty mountain weather was bearing down. She heard the Fairy Godmother of the West, “Don’t get caught on the mountain at night.”

  Encased in her poncho Cinderella stepped onto the bridge. Wood groaned. Slats clattered. Wind dove down the ravine. “Hmmm…” She held both sides of the rope railing. Frozen, a statue on the first step, she whispered, “I don’t want to cross.”

  What she wanted was a life filed with daily tasks at her husband’s side. Together their strengths would empower the Kingdom. United they would raise their children. Just as their parents guided their temperament; helping them to develop skills, talents, based on personal strengths. So would Cinderella, no, Charlotte, and her beloved Prince. He had already studied with the Fairy Godmothers. “Has he crossed this same bridge? Are we crossing from childhood into adult life?”

  She looked up at the rapidly darkening sky, “I’m not made for these death-defying-adventures,” she wailed. Biting her lip she stood on the threshold for too long.

  She knew she would cross. She was half of a whole without her Prince. Theirs wasn’t just a spiritual connection. Apart she felt the loss. A physical absence, wrenching, no words could express. It had been that way since childhood. Like a tapestry of life woven between them. She could not cut those threads. Turning back would be destroying her future, leaving her a shell of emptiness.

  Day light hours were precious on the mountain. Above a buzzard circled. “I’ll intentionally rest for my fear…. for no more than three breaths. Could this be compassion?” She whispered, “Compassion just as the Fairy Godmother of the North suggested.”

  She closed her eyes. A long inhale. A slow exhale. It’s surprising the transformation possible. Three breaths later she took her second step across the rattling rope contraption. “What did the Fairy Godmother of the West say about a young woman dying on the mountain?”

  “No! I won’t go there. I can accept my fears with out being bound to them. I’m choosing to calm. Free of fear’s restrictions.” She took her third step.

  Her stomach seemed to dip and sway in unity with the rope bridge. She whispered, “Just take one step and then another step. Take one step and another step. Leave childhood behind.”

  When the bridge rattled with a gust of wind she held on to the rope, only looking forward. “One step, take another step. Head down, don’t look too far ahead.”

  Black clouds wrapping the mountain shredded and folded only to be ripped by lightning. The instantaneous BA-BOOM of thunder vibrated through the wood planks and rope. Frozen rain whipped through the ravine, coating Cinderella and the rope and planks.

  Stopping midway, holding tightly to the thick rope she looked up at the sky and yelled, “You think I don’t know things can always get worse? Didn’t I learn that when my mother died?”

  A lightning strike was so close the hair raised on Cinderella’s arms. She smelled the chemical ozone but nothing could prepare her for the sonic repercussions of thunder knocking her to her knees. Icy rain sliced at her face leaving small cuts. Stumbling to her feet, clinging to the rope, she shouted, “Didn’t I learn life can get worse after my father died? I know it can get worse.”

  For one penetrating instant she forgot to be afraid. Throwing her intensity into the heart of the turmoil, she stood on her tiptoes. From the middle of the ravine she yelled, “What I want to learn is things can get better!!”

  Maybe it was serendipity or simple coincidence. Rain drizzled. The sun broke through clouds. The gorge was infolded in vivid colors the spectrum of rainbows. Cinderella whispered, “thank you.”

  She put her head down and continued walking her full attention on the slippery wood panels and clinging to the wet rope. Ribbons of colors bent and shined dancing with her trudging figure until she was at the threshold of the opposite end of the bridge.

  With rubber legs she sank onto an immense rock. She put her head in her hands and cried. She cried for the loss of her mother and father. She cried for the future they would not share with her. She cried until her nose streamed. She cried until her broken heart was empty.

  Digging through her pack she found a towel. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Opening the container of coffee-cocoa she drank straight from the bottle. Hiccups and a residual runny nose were intermittent. Between them she drank coffee with thick-sludgy-chocolate. She chugged the whole thing before starting on the cookies. Powdered-sugar-cookies rich with butter, flour and bits of walnuts sent eagerness into her arms and legs. This cloth bag seemed to be filled with never-ending-cookies.

  “Think of it, never-ending-cookies! Yes!” Her tear stained face was lit by her smile.

  She sighed when she confronted the next set of stone steps carved into the sheer face of the mountain. The enormity of the task, forcing her body into the rigors of climbing, was mediated by beauty.

  The incline softened. A Rhododendron forest edged both sides of the stone steps, thick with flowering trees. Delicate pale pink, deep reds, lavender; a profusion of flowers burst from the bushes grown into trees. Fallen blossoms covered the steps in a carpet of reds, purples and pinks.

  Patches of wild Iris dotted the trail. Late afternoon sun broke through the clouds. The humming of bees giddy with nectar tickled her awareness. Bird song added a note to the symphony. Cinderella was saturated in the peaty fragrance of the Rhododendron forest.

  A fleeting moment, as the Rhododendron forest blooms and sheds its petals and spring flowers lined the path. Buffered by their beauty Cinderella trudged up the stone pathway. Her knee was throbbing. Her chest was raw from crying. Her head pounded with the effects of altitude. Every climbing step she took in the oxygen starved mountain air was anguish juxtaposed with the beauty of the mountain forest.

  As bad as she felt Cinderella could not help taking in the wonder. “Tree trunks, they’re wider than my torso. Rhododendrons are a beautiful surprise.”

  It was such a relief when the trail flattened out she almost cried again. At the end of a long lane of pink and purple flower
ing trees, was a white cottage with a bright blue door. She ran down the stone lane as fast as her pack, knee, pounding head and tired feet would allow.

  Wood smoke spilled out the chimney. Blue shutters were open. Stone steps lead to the door. Breathless Cinderella bent her knees, elbows fell on thighs; she dropped her head forward and panted. Her second night away from Blackie she longed to hear his bark and feel his warm welcome. Letting her back pack slip from her shoulders she walked to the far edge of the porch.

  The cottage was positioned at the top of another steep gorge. Leaning over the porch railing she saw a river, aqua blue and foaming white. A hand settled on her shoulder and Cinderella screamed. Turning she was face to face with the Fairy Godmother. They both laughed. Cinderella laughed with relief and the Fairy Godmother laughed at Cinderella’s skittishness.

  Today the Fairy Godmother wore a skirt, the color of the Rhododendron blossoms and a matching sweater. Cinderella soaked in the Fairy Godmother’s tall, linear stature, blonde and silver streaked hair, translucent skin, and today her eyes so blue they hinted of purple. Cinderella had never seen anyone so uniquely beautiful.

  Their evening passed in a blur. The Fairy Godmother talked her through stretching tired muscles. A cooling aloe lotion was applied to her knee. Most surprising of all, the Fairy Godmother sat her in a chair, to cut her hair. She said, “Cinderella you haven’t had a haircut in seven years. Tonight we are cutting off the childhood years. You’ll be recognized as an adult.”

  It felt unfamiliar, like a spark of lightning, the Fairy Godmother cutting her hair. Standing behind her, looking at Cinderella in the mirror she said, “Cinderella, what did you learn today?”

  The last time Cinderella had talked to a reflection in the mirror her mother had stood behind her. The Fairy Godmother’s reflection blurred. Cinderella held her breath. Her eyes cleared. The Fairy Godmother of the North put her hand on Cinderella’s shoulder with a nod of understanding.

  Cinderella swallowed. “Fairy Godmother I set my fears aside to accomplish my tasks. Fear did not prevent me from taking the path to your home with the blue door. I crossed a decrepit bridge. The strangest moment happened when I shouted, ‘I know things can go wrong! I want to know things can go right again.”’

  “Hmmm…”

  Cinderella watched the Fairy Godmother’s reflection. She cut Cinderella’s hair at her shoulders. Years of childhood growth fell away. Years spent with her stepmother. Snipping the ends created bounce. When Cinderella shook her head she felt light and free. Closing her eyes, the image of her new hair cut etched with a nimbus of light surrounding her, remained.

  The Fairy Godmother said, “In the North we live the requirements of an adult. Today you were calling to your spirit, to return to you. The part of your spirit you lost when your parents died. You called back faith. You called back your faith in the possibilities of well-being. We call this spirit retrieval. Do you believe in a native grounding in the power of beneficence?”

  Cinderella jumped in the chair, “what happened?”

  “I asked ‘do you believe in the power of beneficence?’ Do you believe in an underlying goodness, the possibility of atonement and redemption?” Squeezing Cinderella’s shoulder she said, “Cinderella, return to wholeness. This is your final task of the North. Tomorrow you cross North Mountain’s pass.”

  “Yes, Fairy Godmother.” Cinderella cautiously touched her head. What had stung her? She ran her fingers through her hair and swung her head spontaneously joyful. “Thank you Fairy Godmother.” She took the Fairy Godmother’s fair skinned hand to hold between her own. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Metaphysics of a Slippery Slope

  The next morning the house was still. Alone again, longing for Blackie, Cinderella found a note on the table. The Fairy Godmother suggested she pick out a staff from branches of wood stacked in the corner.

  The note said: “Cinderella in the world of Fairy Godmothers, a staff is a tool. You may use it for balance or defense. But more importantly a Fairy Godmother’s staff is a reflection of personal authority. Draw or carve symbols specific to your version of beauty, your understanding of power and dreaming.”

  Cinderella sipped on a glass of fresh juice and read on.

  “For example, your first symbol might be roses. A flower’s beauty is important to you for many reasons. Time spent gardening with your mother. Roses reflect this connection. The many hours you worked together in the rose garden. Draw or paint a rose on your staff. What are the other symbols of your love and purpose Cinderella? Will you follow your mother’s path as a healer?”

  Pouring tea Cinderella murmured, “Will I follow mother’s path to become a healer?” She sat and dipped a spoon into yogurt and oats blended with dried fruit. Licking the spoon she said, “Haven’t I already studied with my mother? Am I studying with Fairy Godmothers? Is there more?”

  She picked up the Fairy Godmother’s note again.

  “Today you will cross the mountain pass. It is a treacherous trail. Stay alert. Drink plenty of water. I send you many blessings on your journey.”

  Cinderella searched the staffs with a clatter of wood. One staff when her hand tightened around the circumference made a great cracking noise followed by a flash of light. Radiance filled the cabin. Intensity so brilliant Cinderella squeezed her eyes shut. Her grip melded to the stick now the weight of heavy iron. Her legs gave out. She sank to the floor. Every cell vibrated with the enormity, the unfathomable echoes of light, reverberating through her.

  It was too much. It was too much to bear the weight of the light, and the darkness in its wake. Cinderella fainted into a place of great balance. Standing at the threshold of spirit, where substance and spirit meet. Bits and particles of light dancing around her staff, light as a feather, floated in front of her.

  Reaching, her trembling hand encircled the wood. She felt a rush of inexplicable joy. Beyond time eternity passed in a flash, when she was explosively propelled into her body. Pinned down on the pine floor by the ironwood weight of the staff, aching and stiff, Cinderella felt an unquenchable thirst. Light had parched every cell. Pushing the great burden off her chest the staff clattered and rolled across the floor. She ran to the sink. Water flowed down her throat. Cool and sweet.

  Afraid of what the staff might do next. Wondering if it was dangerous, she gingerly placed it by the door with her pack and hat. She washed the dishes, made the bed and swept the floor. Looking around with satisfaction at the cheerful cottage Cinderella gathered her equipment. The magical staff, now as light as a feather, masqueraded as a walking stick.

  Pulling on her pack she cried out in surprise. Muscles across her shoulders, the blades where angel wings grow, burned with the ethereal fire of her staff.

  With her hand on the door knob she paused.

  She ran back to the kitchen and drank an extra glass of water. Her eye fell on a pencil. Swiftly sketching a rose twining around the stalk of her staff she tucked the pencil in a pocket. With a prayer of thanks she opened the blue door and stepped out into the sunny day.

  She was at a loss to explain what happened when she put her hands on her staff. That she was transfigured in the light she knew. “What does it mean?” She had no idea. While the experience happened in the blink of an eye, she consoled herself, “some things just take time to understand.”

  Did she vibrate now at the frequency of joy? Her face softened. Lips lifted, her eyes sparkled. Beauty flowed out of her. Of course she had no idea.

  Following the trail behind the house led to another series of stone steps carved into the mountain. Her legs recovering from the strain of yesterday’s hike had no stuffing in them. She felt light and free. It wasn’t her legs propelling her up these mountain stairs. It was her lightness of spirit. She floated on the residual glow of light.

  Stairs gave way to shale and dirty snow. Cinderella was grateful for the hat shading the glare of sun glinting off snow. The staff gave her extra support yet her knee str
ained against the exertion. When she came to the edge of the glacier she stuttered to a stop. “No!” Her scream echoed across the vast expanse lost in the white hot wilderness.

  Reflected heat from the sun poured off the glacier; a horizontal wall of ice, a sea of endless blue white. Sugary snow blew in drifts magnetizing into bristly porcupine ice spikes. Heart pounding she took a tentative step onto the glacier. Had she ever felt so terrified and alone? The layer of ice under the thin layer of snow made navigation slow and treacherous.

  Going back was not an option. Deep in her belly, the “ha, huh,” sound of sobs without tears accompanied her first steps. Slipping and sliding Cinderella fought her way around the spikes. She circumnavigated the stalagmites of snow, to the far corner where shale met forming a ninety degree angle. It was the only avenue to continue her climb.

  Her mouth was dry and gritty. She licked chapped lips. Arms and legs screaming with oxygen deprivation at the higher altitudes grew heavy and clumsy. Could this be where she was meant to go? It seemed far too dangerous, she whispered, “I’m just an ordinary girl.”

  She would give anything to be in her mother’s garden pruning and weeding. She’d rather be washing dishes for her stepmother than climb this crevasse. Looking up the trail for hand holds she realized her staff would be the best support available. Freeing her icy water bottle with shaky hands she drank. But in the blink of an eye her mouth was filled with the dry cotton of dehydration. She groaned.

  Wedged into the crevasse she began climbing the slippery shale. Walking under a lip of granite hung with icicles as thick as a tree she reached out to touch one. A thunderous pounding, was her only warning followed by tons of granite and ice, pouring off the mountain. She threw herself deep into the ledge slamming her face into the granite wall seeking safety. Blood poured from her lip, split on the face of North Mountain. She cowered in the corner where the ledge met the mountain. As avalanches go it was over pretty quickly, but Cinderella continued to shake glued to her corner of the mountain. “Did I do something wrong? Did I cause the avalanche?”