[ A year old English assignment on “home” that I discovered in the bowels of my external hard drive. A bit on the cheesy side, I admit, but girls who lose their fathers at eighteen are allowed to be nostalgic. ]

Some may say my childhood home is cluttered, or lacks a cohesive design style – I say my home is made of history. Daily histories are piled on the floor by the front door: my father’s work boots, mud-caked from tromping through the wet lands in front of our property; a stack of homework, mine or my sister’s, spilling out of a hastily discarded backpack; dainty high-heeled shoes traded by my mother for a worn pair of slippers after a wearying work day. Personal histories plaster the walls and shelves: my parents’ wedding photo hanging above the mantle, with my father’s Marine Corps saber below; grade-school pictures stashed in mismatched frames along the stairwell, a visual progression of embarrassing outfits and home-cut bangs; a life’s worth of height marks dutifully recorded on the kitchen door frame as my sister and I struggle to beat each other by a centimeter or an inch. Family histories, however, those steeped in the familiar and weighty word tradition, are the intangible qualities that transform this house into a home: the quiet crinkle of my mother turning a newspaper page as she sits at the kitchen table; my father humming along to Arlo Guthrie as he chops vegetables for tonight’s beef stew; the mysterious and enviable maturity of my sister’s closed bedroom door. Every sight, every sound, every scent is a history, and this history is my foundation.

“I thought I would find you up here. Couldn’t sleep?” As the wild haired fey emerged from the twisting stairwell and into the lantern room of the great Sanctuary Island lighthouse, Alice turned from the window and shrugged off Muffy’s concern with a tired smile. “Nerves, that’s all. Is everything ready for tomorrow?”

“Should be. There’s only one way to find out.” Muffy gave a hopeful sigh and placed one hand on the elegantly carved glass-like Otraresin lens. Despite the intense light, the rainbow surface remained cool to the touch. “It’s good to see the beacon lit again. I never could sleep through the night without its beam filling up my window every few minutes. It’s been so awfully dark here since it was broken. I’ve had such terrible nightmares.”

“So have I.” Alice gave a nod and squeezed her friend’s free hand. Muffy squeezed back, a smile of fierce determination on her face. “This is just the beginning,” Muffy promised. “We’ll set things right, you’ll see. With the light lit, they’ll start making their way home. They have to.” Alice felt a wash of grateful affection for the strong, stubborn girl at her side. What would I have done without her? she wondered. You would have fallen long ago, a voice responded deep inside her, and then all of this would have been for nothing. You need her. You need all of them. But will they come?

“…Alice…” The sudden fear in Muffy’s voice raised the hair on the back of the captain’s neck and shook her from her introspection.

“What is it?”

When Muffy did not respond, Alice followed the line of her gaze. Muffy stared stiffly out one storm pane, fingers suspended in the air as if drawn to something but afraid to make contact. For a moment Alice couldn’t make out what had set the girl on edge, but as the beacon rotated and flooded the window with light she saw them: nine words scratched into the glass of the storm pane, thin and jagged. As if carved by a hook, thought Alice, an unsettling shiver crawling up her spine. But no, that’s impossible. We would have known if she were on the island. She would have tripped the defenses. We would have known. I would have known.

“What does it say?” Muffy asked, though both had read the words. Alice said nothing for a moment, hesitating to give voice to the strange note. When she did speak, the words tasted of gunpowder and ash in her mouth.

“Night, shaded Wren:
all men’s dread
haven’s fatal ill”

“…what does it mean?” Muffy whispered as the two girls stared at the ominous message. Alice shook her head and turned away to let the hot white beam of the lighthouse wash over her chilled skin, but the words had robbed the light of its comfort.

“I don’t know.”

Ten years ago today. Ten years ago today my twelve year old self slouched down low at my desk, hoping to escape the notice of my algebra teacher as he reviewed last night’s homework. My pencil moved of its own accord across the lined paper, tracing and retracing one word blocked out along the margin, the letters spaced out as if in desperate calling: C h a r l i e . . .

My stomach lurched with a primal surge of fear when the floor began to tremble beneath my feet. It must have been mere seconds, though of course it felt like minutes, before my teacher barked the command we students had been trained to follow since first grade. “Everyone drop and cover; hold onto your desks; cover your head and neck.” I scrambled beneath my tiny desk, fighting back panic as the tremors mounted into a violent, thunderous shaking. The floor beneath us rocked and roiled for ages, longer than any earthquake I had ever experienced, longer than I had thought possible. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed the quaking would end. Forty five seconds later, a dreadful eternity to a girl often reduced to tears by even a magnitude three earthquake, the trembling finally ceased. But the shaking didn’t. My two story junior high continued to sway back and forth sickeningly like a ship tossed by angry waves. My classmates and I remained huddled beneath our desks, strangely mute, waiting. When the building finally settled, the other students crawled from beneath their desks in an excited chatter. Only I remained silent, shaky on my legs and struggling not to break down as I thought I hate earthquakes. I hate earthquakes. I hate earthquakes.

The principal relayed the news to us over a megaphone as we stood shivering on the school’s front lawn, unable to go back inside for fear of structural damage yet bound by state law to remain on school property. The magnitude 6.8 earthquake had hit somewhere near Nisqually. At the time the words didn’t mean much to me, except that I knew the quakes we usually experienced were always threes or fours, never anything so high. The unpredictable might of the earth beneath my feet frightened me and I continued to jump at every trembling, the sound of a jet plane crossing overhead or the washing machine kicking into high gear. Even years later, the slightest unexpected quiver can still rush my blood with a flight response of adrenaline. February 28th, 2001, the Nisqually quake. The shaking, the rolling, the broken roads; that’s what people recall when they trade their “where were you when” stories. I remember the fear. More than anything, I remember that.

The earthquake is a bitter reminder of another anniversary as well, one not marked by a date but by the name carved into my algebra homework. It was ten years ago next week, then, that I found him again. I had not stopped calling each night, standing on frozen toes on the back porch until my throat ached from shouting and my mother begged me to come inside. I did not want to admit I had given up, but my head hung low as I walked along the road after school and my ears no longer strained to hear his voice. I might have missed him entirely as I turned up the driveway, but a mother always knows. A patch of darkness out of the corner of my eye caught my attention and I turned, scanning the water logged ditch at my side.

And there he lay, crumpled and limp among the reeds. He had been close, so close, just two feet from home after eight days of wandering in the dark woods. Eight days of dodging coyotes and raccoons, ferals and strays, and two feet from safety he had been unable to dodge the car. Charlie, my Charlie, my little gray shadow. Even now my sister still recalls the inhuman wailing she heard in our house half a mile up the driveway, and the chill which crawled up her spine as she recognized the source of the noise and what her younger sister’s sobbing must mean. Charlie. My Charlie. My little one, my shadow. I would not see him again for many years, when he traded smoke fur for golden spots and tabby stripes, but I recognized him even then. I always do. And now that I have lost that one as well, and no amount of calling will bring that son home either, I will wait. I will recognize him again. I always do.

Walker, you are the first. Before the guttural tongues of man, the ancient language of mountains. Before the taming of fire, the slumber of snow and ice. Before the triumph of citadels, the revolving crown of stars.

Before name, breath.

Wanderer, you are the last. Beyond the hollowing of the hills, the eternity of the earth. Beyond the failing of the Sun, the rising of the Moon. Beyond the withering of the river, the fidelity of the ocean.

Beyond name, memory.

Wayfarer, you are the only. Barring guidance, the calling. Barring belonging, the unknown places. Barring voice, the meaning of silent solitude.

Barring name, understanding.

But I shouldn’t, you wouldn’t, we couldn’t. What have I to offer? Ghost stories. Lighthouses. Woods, water, winter, words. Musty books and autumn leaves; fresh baked scones and homemade jam. But am I naïve to believe that could ever replace the thrill of stolen kisses? What else have I to offer if not vulnerability? Seashells. Picnics. Rain, rocks, rivers, ravens. Fairy rings and starless nights; midnight trains and harvest Moons. But am I a fool to presume that could ever be proof enough for you of my love? What else have I to offer if not intimacy, not touch? We couldn’t. You wouldn’t. I shouldn’t.

(but what if the ghosts are just hungry for words and so they come creeping to the windows with scrabbling bare branch fingers to riffle through the old letters in search of long forgotten names and addresses what if they’re just dissonant specters who can’t let go would it be so wrong for me to scatter white rice words across the carpet but no they say it’s a trap don’t acknowledge the ghosts don’t open your mouth do you want them to win do you want to trade your life for their’s but I’m not afraid of ghosts I just want to sleep through the night and if I’m being haunted either way I might as well play the game)

they tell me not to speak to ghosts but they aren’t the ones who wake in the morning to the pictures turned back from the wall and the letters all scattered and opened blank inside but always with the promise of words so that fool as I am I hold them to the light so sure to find the hidden message the secret code spelled out in Bible verse numbers or zeros and ones but spectral fingers left no prints and movement at the edge of my vision is just curtains rippling in the wind

[ Ellira Brightwind makes her second appearance, this time to bequeath upon the Sisters of the Divine Vale some sage advice for the new year, complete with a generous helping of adjectives and Unnecessarily Capitalized Words. Kinda lost my steam by the end of this piece, but I wanted to finish it anyway. ]

Celebrations and salutations to the Newborn Year, most cherished sisters! This morning the rising Sun dawns upon the promise of many experiences and possibilities in the days to come. With the arrival of the New Year, we are in a unique position to embrace the limitless potential stored in our bodies, minds, and hearts. Now is the time to take advantage of the fresh energies aligning along the elysian pathways and continue the quest for your Infinite Self. Never fear if such a task seems insurmountable, my dearest ones! You should never balk from change for fear of the Unknown; when you have faith, the Universe moves within you and guides you on your proper way. Open your Self to glorious transformation in the New Year by devoting your core energies to the triad of your body, mind, and heart.

~ Preservation of the Body ~

Our bodies are our temples. It is through our bodies that we interact with the world around us, the flesh and bone means by which we experience the Middle Realm. We are born of the Mother’s earthly womb and our bodies are Her treasured creations; we are nourished by the grains of Her soils and the fruits of Her orchards and the sweet, cold waters of Her rivers. When we nurture ourselves on these good, natural sustenances, we reaffirm our connection with all the living world. However, when we defile our bodies with synthetic creations, our temples begin to decay. Processed foods, alcohol, artificial preservatives – these things are wholly unnatural, not of the Earth or the Mother Goddess, and so they do not provide our bodies with any true nutrition. Instead they only bloat our Inner Selves with empty energy and we devour Nothing, imagining ourselves full even as we waste away. With the birth of this New Year, sisters, renounce all dependency on false foods and honor your temple with the Mother’s gifts of land and water and sky. Let nothing pass your lips which is not good or natural. Eat and drink of the Mother Goddess and you shall remain pure.

~ Strengthening of the Mind ~

Our minds are the altars of our body’s temples. When our bodies flourish, so do our minds. The Mother Goddess teaches us to listen well to the rhythms of our beings and the natural ebb and flow of the Spirit River, whose fount springs forth from the wide roots of the Tree of Life. This coming year, take time each day to meditate and reconnect yourself with the living world around you. Breathe deeply and feel the land breathing with you. Attune yourself to the rhythm of existence and embrace your part in the Greater Whole. Seek silence and listen with your inner ear to the heartbeat of the Universe. Let your life pulse in time with that deeper drum. Close your eyes and open your Third Eye, so that you may glimpse the wonders and beauty of every plane. See everything, and open yourself to the truths of the cosmos. Steady your mind in this way each morning and night, and you shall know peace.

~ Renewal of the Heart ~

Our hearts are the chalices which rest upon our mind’s altar and are protected by the purity and strength of our body’s temple. The worries and sorrows of the Old Year still weigh heavily upon our hearts; with the arrival of the New Year, we must shed these shackles and give birth to new wings with which to ascend beyond the woes of the past. Let your heart be as a newly planted seedling in the rich earth of the Mother’s womb, young and bursting with joyful energy. Reach up to the Sun and bask in its nourishing rays as you thank it for the gift of warmth and vivacity. In this way you will grow vibrant with the Spring; when the Winter’s storms lash and rage, you will bend but will not break. Your heart will be as a willow in the wind, strong and fluid. Be flexible in your heart, embrace all opportunities and trials you face in your life, and you shall emerge victorious.

With the coming of the New Year and the birth of Spring, let your bodies be cleansed, your minds opened, and your hearts filled with compassion and understanding. With the love and guidance of our sanctified community, we all shall walk the surest path of Destiny. Until we meet again, be it in this plane or in the Inbetween where dreaming bestows true Sight upon our Third Eye, walk with the heartbeat of the Earth and carry the blessings of the Sisters of the Divine Vale with you to all corners of the Connected Realms.

The Breath of the Mother be with you. Namarie.

~ Ellira Brightwind, Sister of the Divine Vale