The Seven Days of Wander

by Broken Walls Publishing

history of statured blood; an issue of life given into the Night's cackling gut.”

  Sweat sprung from the girl's brown, flowing in and out her eyes; streams caressed around her lips, gathered with others stained from the cheeks and fell as if diamonds being sheered from stone.

  From the chin they fell to the hollow of her breast, that already being soaked in its own release, the half blood, half sweat upon it soaked at the nipples and curving crests the rivers joined, filled the flat belly in a shimmer of silver even as the flow was unceasingly pulled downward.

  Bathed in the short pubic of her new woman, gathered to the lesser red damp and spilled rapid down the inner legs forming intricate webs of faint pink. Fainter and fainter as the damp from the legs diluted the upper flow.

  Outward from the bare feet, the circles of dampness fought the

  oblivion by drying sand, sought a continious oasis against the overbearing heat, sought to fruit a living stance above the dust, the hell of the girl's rooted defence.

  Her eyes, even with the salt of sweat giving more pain to the light's pierce, did not blink in falter. Her right arm raised up, stiff at the elbow, the fingers half clawed. Her right arm raised up, in the slow tortuous slice at a belly. Her right arm raised up, as if the iron lever of sentence, to decree banish or embrace in the flinch of a wrist.

  “HEAT DOG OF ALL MOTHERS! Where is the long point of your ears, that you do not heed your daughters torn on the land! To what are you leashed, oh maimed jaws, that you cannot revenge amongst the transgressors of the Living Blood, Woman!

  I see thy frontal paws, churning an anguished air but where is the rear to bear thy savagery and give full pursuit? Due to seek and devour the lasting shadows?

  In the begin of all time, were you not the full prance of a she-wolve? WHERE ARE YOUR LEGS BITCH”

  Gone to the stumps, worn to the knee by the grind of your lust for creation! Lost in every crack and crevasse of the blood land; your very legs devoured by your own carnivorous bitch-womb, so relentless is its yaw to bend spirit into flesh!

  Where is Death, thy graven mate but writhing, convulsing behind all light, its black fever moaning for your re-descent. And its spawn, the motherkillers? Where are they but ploughing the trembling outraged earth? And out of such fertile dung, thy insatiable vision births the four-limbed bowl. To be filled with blood or death.”

  The wind, hot with the dryness of dead skin rose in the girl's hair.Though matted, drenched in the sweat of her defiance, the ends became free in the brush of heat. Danced before her eyes that till then were filled only with a fierce red passion, birthed between daughter and god.

  The light wafts swaying, burning before her gave the ancient voice a passive brush to its lips, the way one would still the troubled whispers upon a confused dazed mouth, the wrinkles deep around it a confession of memory made more bitter, more bewildered in its forgotten moments of sweetness.

  The wind cradled the girl to her knees, her right arm gave to the heavy stone of its poise and curled to embrace her chest with the left. Yet the eyes still held open to the god, without rage, without hope. The glass of a window slight turned so as to mirror without a hint of some passage.

  She spoke in the voice of her existing child leaned to something larger:“I see the webs of your giving, the long fingers of child in your light. A gentler mean of darkness which has no blade but rather is but the weave of reach. As the spider gathers its path across the open limb, as the wheat tickles the wind's throat, as a wing flutters so like a child's teasing hand, as the woman whirls her love, her delicate eyes, a fruit giggling in the lift of her song.

  There the forms of crystalline and edge, Death and Creation flower as child. What was and what will befind form in this sanctuary of being. A delicate eruption of living faith, that all living have faith in the love of life. The child is both the clarion of creation and the banner of death, for does it not give the living itself full passage.

  As is not love but travelling through these parallel of forces. A sheer of infinite winds raging past each other in opposite of design.

  So that terror and hope are the limbs of the Eye, so that Void and Infinite are all endless torn and grievous upon the ear of love.

  That only the Beginning is immortal of end, the endless child breathes as lastgasp; its skin the multitude shedding of layers unend.

  That who would bruise, who would caress this love, closes or opens their passage through life.

  For the unliving are as mad before Creation as they are foaming before Death.

  That the child comes out of creation and grasping love seeks the gather, the resurrection of Death.

  Including its creation in the resurrection of all Death.

  Death looks upon Child and sees the Saviour beyond its own appetite. And Creation looks upon Child and sees the living hands of Dream, as one would see the first crawl emerge from the dark feted mud of original dwelling.

  Such was the offer then of your legged, immobility that all light shone yet flared in Void and remained an eyeless as Dark. Shadow of one leg was given to birth the light as cold in its contrast fires heat. The other for child, for eyes to harvest worship and adorn even as the Death devours with a breath sucked on rotten throat.

  Even for a goddess of all Sun there lies no other way to life but die, that which journeys must end, that which sees must slumber, breath must exhale, a footstep must return to dust, the motion of all is circle on there is no motion.

  Only the stones travel in straight lines. The same in past, present, future without deviate or curve and remains gray to light or dark; forever unchoosing as it is without choice.

  But the God-Mother chooses life above light; chooses pulse above warmth; the God-Mother herself shed brilliance of throne for the endless belly drags across Desert. To bleed ever in the dust and give breath itself to light, to birth what is from what could not be!"

  The girl rose full to her length, both arms flung to the wind stronger at her gather; her eyes as burnt in thought-fever as her God's form.

  "She; the She-One; that she cleaved at her centre, that One becomes the Three given in red flow, ever the red pour of deathlessness overwhelming death, of red holding black and white apart from a gray oblivion, just as She herself holds heaven sky from dark lands, the red winds of her breath riving shadow from the green reach.

  "RED IS SHE. RED IS CHILD. BLOOD is their bathe, blood is their join, living is blood. Not for worship but that existence storms for worship. BLOOD IS AND THUS IS WORSHIPPED.”

  Her body knelt again, the arms remained outward. Her face gathered a rigid contort, an unmasking to the depths of some deep joining of forces or emotions which stir only when sanity ceases to have any cause and revelation rears full rein at the tongue. In a low churn of voice almost as if the half growl of wolf, the bark of dog, the Girl-She decreed testament onto Desert:

  "Tis birth of Child which is both worship and to be worshipped. Yet Child is death's past as stone is blood's inherit. Let the worship be as is worshipped. LET THE PRAYER BE AS THE TEMPLE. Rise and fall, heal and cut, death itself birthed, cradled in the passage of Child huddling into stone; descending into the blood frozen of regret. Let the words be spoken, then broken.

  Let Death bring the wound upon Creation and then let Child issue. Let Child, let Blood free and then as all things bring forth the Death need. So that where there is Death, there no longer is Child but Creation is always. For Creation was the first cleave of Sun-Mother. All but Child is the Motherkillers yet Creation is the death-mate to bear child.

  So let all both die and live! And let true worship of the Sun-blood both die and live! Endless of tears, of blood sweat for the rut of resurrection! Death has no power, Life has no hold, Child is a broken bone, Sun is but a gash in the Night, Darkness a mumble's fever; all is void without void; lost without the true worship. The Worship of Woman, by Woman encircles all and gives the hallowed bless. Through the instruments of blood. Wielded by woman. Only woman. GOD-WOMAN!! GOD-WOMAN ARISE FROM T
HE BLOOD!

  Thy destiny is the eternal crush of the motherkillers stone! Let the blood course around all stone; let the blood vein the stone, boil and plunder its form.

  Let the woman covet child till the child dies into stone and spills into the storm winds of death or creation. When the god ceases to be god and descends to man, there let Creation swallow Death and issue again and again and again the god. The God-Child, the stone and blood, the moving lines of Song! Let Woman sing endless the Song, let Woman howl the Blood Song from the Desert Gorge of her belly, rising, rising to flare wild from her lips, from the tongue of her soul, from the rapture of her self-worship. Higher, higher, let the blood flow, let it bathe the land, let it gather to the valleys, the hollows, the pits, the beds, the millennia of footprints upon the land. LIQUID FIRE! Let the roots pulse of it, let all created be swallowed of it. Let it be SEEN as it truly is! Let no eyes remain blind to each limb running in blood. Let all divine and kneel. By DEATH OR WILL, to the Great Flood which was, is, shall be.

  Let worship, let woman, let the blood tooth, the pulse flower of Sun, mirror the red glory of this Womanly Terror! Let the Claw of Knife plunder the Red Spirit and thus the Sun-Womb continue its kiss of flow upon the Land."

  A knife point sliced the skin inside her upper thigh, did likewise on the other thigh. Without flinch this was