Through the Vale of Transformation
Past the Lake of Everlasting Bliss
Nestled in the Glen of Widows
On the First Kingdom's
Southern rim...
Lies an ancient village...
Famed throughout the Nine
For the artistry of its women...
In sewing...weaving...spinning...
Skilled mistresses of the loom.
The village's pride...it's gem...pearl of great price
Is the maiden Ciara...
Ciara, the clever...the gifted...
Ciara, of the magic fingers
Ciara, appointed by Queen Cinderella
To represent the Kingdom
And weave a tapestry
For Prince Wendall's coronation.
A tapestry
Celebrating the life
Of his grandmother...Queen Snow White.
Fingers and shuttle...performing
As one
Skimming...flitting...hummingbirding
Interlacing...weaving their spell.
In brilliant...dazzling...color
The famous queen's story takes form
Evolving...emerging...unfolding...
Upon the loom.
Fingers...creating...crafting
Then...
Slowing...slacking...stopping
Thoughts distracting...
Memories interfering
With her work.
Sighing...rising...crossing...
To the window
She leans forward...elbows upon casement
Fingers gather together
To cup her chin
Deep breaths of rose-scented air
Eyes closed...tight...
Her mind takes flight...back
Four months
When summoned to her ladymother's bedchamber
She had been informed
That the time had come...she's of an age
To bear children...
Take a husband...
To wed.
When told...a match had been made
The tears she shed...the pleas she pled...
Had fallen on unrelenting...
But sympathetic...ears.
"My dear child", her mother had said
Gently...kindly...soothingly.
"You know this is our way...always...and
Ever must be."
"But what of love?" she'd cried.
"Why must I...be denied
The joy...bliss...ecstasy...
While others are so blessed?"
Her mother had sighed...gathered her close
To her breast.
"Do you think...that your sisters...
Myself...as well
Did not feel these same things...
Did not cry these same tears?"
With soft...loving hands
She had cradled her face...kissed her brow
"You cannot understand...now...at this moment.
Nothing I say will help you to see
It's for the best...
The way it must...has...to be.
But I promise...you will."
But, mother,
Can you promise...I'll be happy?
There had been no reply.
With a groan...of frustration...
Twisting away from the window
Arms hugging her chest...
Mind scrambling...
For a plan...a way to escape...Her fate.
She desperately wants...
To run...run...until her legs give way.
But instead...can only pace
Back...forth...the boundaries of the room.
Hands clasping...unclasping
Lip bitten...
What is she to do!
In two months time...her life will change...
Forever!
Her loom...
Once her solace...her joy
Now a harbinger of heartache...despair.
She cannot bear...to touch...
To finish the tapestry
For as her nimble fingers bring forth the tale
Of envy...beauty...love...happy ever after
Each thrust of the shuttle
Is as a dagger...
Piercing...puncturing...Her heart...her dreams.
No Prince Charming's kiss...
Will awaken her...from this spell.
Consumed by chaotic imaginings
Mindlessly pacing to and fro...
She is brought back to the present
To find herself standing
In front of her wardrobe door.
On impulse...she flings...wide
And stares...tearfully...at the garment
Hanging straight and beautiful...inside.
A gown...
Woven in love...by her sisters.
Their bridal gift...
Symbol-to-be of her married state.
To be worn...forever...
After her wedding day.
Plucking at the fabric...
Her fingers delight in its softness...richness
Imaging it against her naked skin.
With a choking...sob...
She slams the door...
Her back pressed...hard...against the wooden surface
Fighting back tears...that long to be shed.
But...what good...what use
In crying...fighting...running
She is trapped...by duty
To her family...her heritage...her nature.
She must accept...this destiny...
Must face...that which is inevitable.
Time...the Enemy...the Betrayer..
Fickle...uncaring...
Hurrying...hastening...her towards a future
Frightening...and unknown.
Time...running...swiftly...
Out.
The day...arrives...and with joy-filled hearts
The villagers join in...with the final
Preparations
For the ceremony to take place
That summer night.
Up the streets...down the lanes
In the village square
Levity and revelry...ensue.
Yet, there are two...
Unable...unwilling...to partake in the
celebration...
Whose hearts...unknowingly
Beat...pulse...hammer
With the same cold dread
of the coming night and
The waiting bridal bed.
The time has come...dusk has fallen.
In the Grotto of the Dawning
Vervain faeries have
Festooned the cavern with their blossoms...
And silken banners...hangings...
Of every imaginable hue...
Drape its craggy walls.
Light from a thousand candles
Holds back the encroaching night.
Sounds of shuffling...coughing...murmuring...
Twittering...sneezing...children's happy screeching...
Fill the cave
As with excited anticipation
They await the arrival of the
Maiden...and her groom.
A hush...falls
As the Wood Woman...Lilu,
Tall still, though slightly bent by age...
Gray hair tangled with dried leaves
and moss...
The scent of rich, damp earth...mold...wood
Following in her wake...
Assumes her place before the crowd.
Pounding her oaken staff...once...twice
Upon the floor of stone
She signals...the ancient rites
Have begun.
From opposite sides of the cavern
Slowly...with measured stride
Two figures...clad in forest hues -
She in fertile green...he in watery blue -
Approach the Screen of Latrodectus
That shields them...only from each other's view.
In a voice brittle...dry...as long dead leaves
The Wood Woman's intonation
Lifts...floats...fills the air...
"Ciara, Daughter of Theridi,
Do you enter this joining willingly...
Accepting all that shall be asked of you?"
Her voice shaky...but resolute
The maiden answers...recites
"I, Ciara, Daughter of Theridi, accept willingly
That which is my duty...as did my mother and hers before."
"Then, Daughter of Theridi,
Take...eat the berries of the Ice Queen's plant
That flourishes green though bitten
By winter's frost
Eat...to ensure...that the fruit which you shall bear
Will be as strong and plentiful."
The crone, a branch...of mistletoe...extends
Toward the girl...standing...pale...and still.
Accepting the offering...with a nervous hand
She meets the crone's rheumy gaze with
conviction
Chewing and swallowing the bitter berries
And sealing the bargain.
Nodding her head ...approvingly
The Wood Woman
Strikes the ground...once...twice...three
Times...with her staff
And turns her attention to the
Waiting groom
"Eoin, Son of Archatane
Do you enter this joining willingly,
Accepting without question and giving all
That shall be asked of you?"
A male voice...young...the depth of manhood
Not yet obtained...but hovering on the threshold
Came...anxiously...but unhesitantly
From behind the screen.
"I, Eoin, son of Archatane
Accept and give all that is asked of me
Without question.
For it is my duty...my destiny...as it was my father's and his before."
"Then, Son of Archatane
Take and drink of this potion brewed of
Relish's Mead and tansy root
To give you strength and stamina to
Face the night ahead."
So saying she handed him a blue limpet shell
Bade him drink...long and deep
Of the heady brew.
Nervously...he brought the cup
To his lips...tipping his head back
And in so doing...a drop or two fell
Upon the toe of his velvet shoe
Marring the material...with a blood-red stain.
Wings beating...flashing...shining
In the candlelight
Tiny Vervains...
Hover over the Screen of Latrodectus...
The Curtain Between Strangers...
And tug the cords tight
Releasing the weighted fabric...
Revealing the newly joined couple
At last...to each other's sight.
One...two...three...four
For the last time the heavy staff...sounds
Its tattoo upon the floor
Proclaiming the ritual...ended
And calling for the feasting to begin.
Amid the din...the shouts of cheer...
Laughter...merriment
New husband...new wife
Stand exposed...still as statues...still as
Death
Faces...pale twin moons
In which eyes...
Reflecting pools of doubt...uncertainty
Apprehension...fear
See...as through a mirror cold and dark
A future...for only one.
With resignation...and dignity
Eoin bows...extends his hand...palm up
Ciara submitting gracefully
Places hers...upon his...palm down.
Thus joined - by flesh and fate
They depart the grotto
Merging with the lively crowd
Proceeding to the wedding banquet.
Toasting...feasting...ribald joking
Swirl...up...over...around
The couple
Sitting at the table head.
The bride partaking...little
Of the courses...passing up and down
Back and forth.
The groom...eyes beginning to show
The magic potion's effect
Smiles vacantly at conversation
Aimed his way.
Hawk-sharp...missing nothing
Seeing all
The Wood Woman...
Rises...regally...from her chair.
All sounds cease...all necks swivel
All eyes rivet
As she proclaims...
It's time!
The bridal bed awaits.
Two mothers...bid goodnight
Embracing each her child
Though one
Holds on...a little longer...a little tighter.
Endearments...whispered hastily...lovingly
Farewells...whispered tearfully.
Then...
There's nothing left...all has been said.
Bring the torches...and...off...off
To the bridal bed.
Two minds focusing...concentrating on anything
But what direction their feet are taking
Anything but...their destination.
Counting stairs climbed...doors passed
Servants bowing...torches burning
Until
A door...appears before them
Open...wide... beckoning them inside.
Later...much later...
Within the chamber...they stand...unclad
Silent...statues carved from ice.
Not moving...barely breathing...until
With a sigh...deep...lost...resigned
He steps...warily...towards her
Eyes glazed...glassy...drugged
But deep within...a silent plea
Reaches out...touches...her heart
With a pity...quickly doused...
When he takes her hand...and
Leads her across the icy floor
To the bridal bed.
Daylight...peeking...
Seeking a way around the curtain's edge
Dimly illuminates a figure...
Sleeping...dreaming...on the bridal bed.
Daylight...teasingly...playfully...dancing across
Lids that open...languidly.
The body extends...pulls...pushes muscles
In a long...tight...cat-stretch
Beneath the silken sheets...
Lips curl in a sated smile...
Contented...
How stupid she had been...to have
Dreaded this day and...last night.
Never... has she felt...like this...
So alive...so full of Life!
Rolling on her side...arms wrapping the
Downy pillows...hugging them tight
How right...her ladymother...how right
She had been
What a mistake...terrible...dreadful
It would have been
To have married for love.
So much better this way...
No regrets...no pain...for her...
To face.
Knocking...soft...timid...shy
Breaks through her ponderings.
Biding the maids to enter
She reluctantly sits up...takes another...
Luxurious stretch...tosses the coverlet aside
And stands.
Giving the bed no second thought...no backward glance
She pads silently across the room
To the wardrobe...against the wall.
Opening the door...she removes her gift...
Her sisters' gown.
Ignoring the sounds of the...servants at their task
She slips it on...enjoying its sensuous slide
Down...around...against her skin.
Twisting...turning...pirouetting
Before the mirror
She admires her reflection.
The long...velvet...obsidian dress
Clinging to lush...round...curves...
Skirt flowing...over long legs
To pool on the barren floor.
Tight...narrow sleeves
Encase...showing to advantage
Long...slender...elegant arms...
A wide...soft...leather girdle...
Cups under breasts...embraces waist...
Hugs hips
Like an crimson hourglass bandage.
Twirling...whirling...arms high overhead...
Oh...she has never felt so alive...
Vital!...so...newborn!
Her very blood...singing as it pulses
Through her veins.
The maids... with their bundles...scurry
From the room
Leaving her humming...a happy...merry... tune
That...gives her pause...a tiny twinge of
Regret for something lost..
But only for a moment.
The day is too new...to full
To waste...on things
She has no power...nor wish
To undo.
With lightness of heart...and excited steps
She leaves the room...
Feet...hurrying...quickening
The closer she getw...to
The chamber that houses her loom.
Sighing...
With happiness...contentment...pleasure
Settling upon the stool...
Within the center of the oval loom
Fingers running...lightly...lovingly
Over the brightly colored yarns and silks
She smiled...now, to work!
The sooner she finishes Prince Wendell's coronation gift
The sooner she can begin...
Spinning her nursery.
Four pairs of hands...skillfully...nimbly...deftly
Settle to their task
As the Widow...Ciara...
Humming softly
Sets to weaving...shaping...fulfilling...
Her dreams.
If you enjoyed this poem, please let Mary-Cade know.
