Marei - book one. Part three: Shadow. Chapter 13

We returned to the House and set up preparations for the upcoming festival. As we were shaping the bannock breads into crescent shapes, there was a knock at the door. Grandmother did not seem surprised as she hurried across the room to open the door. At the door was Gurek, one of the men who celebrated with us at the other group rituals I had attended. He was finely dressed for the holiday, in a new looking kilt and leather belt with a coyote skin slung over one shoulder. He had no hair, except for a silver fringe along the sides behind his ears, and for a flash he reminded me of Oak Man.

Grandmother greeted him with an exuberant and lingering hug and ushered him into the House. She did not include me in her conversation as shadows are not to be spoken to in the company of others. I was wearing what Grandmother said was traditional dress for a shadow – a dark brown, unadorned shift similar to my sleeping dresses. He considered me briefly, then, noticing my attire, turned his attention away and back to Grandmother. I sat with them at the table as they talked all morning. It was obvious to me that Grandmother had feelings for this man, but the depths of them I did not know. Often while talking they would touch hands, and each of them would stare openly at the other when they thought they would not be seen.

I was beginning to appreciate the position of shadow. As a shadow I was allowed to unabashedly witness scenes that would otherwise be hidden from me and observe situations that would only happen when a person or couple were alone. It’s as if I’m really not here. I mused. I felt a moment of panic that I was invisible, but then smiled to myself – I was, of course, visible; just purposely not noticed.

Throughout the day, several other people knocked on the door and joined us in the common room. The energy in the room was subdued, but electric; it seemed somehow that there was more being said than just the words that came out of mouths. I struggled to hear that second level of communication and could find nothing, except a slight headache from concentrating so hard for so long. But I was still convinced that these people were talking without words.

Maybe this is how a baby feels; sure that her parents are communicating, but unable to mimic or even, at first, understand the meaning behind the noises. The comparison soothed my feeling of unrest and need for recognition. I relaxed and just let the subtle non-noise wash over me, certain that like a baby I would be able to understand and speak in time.

As darkness fell, Grandmother gathered everyone together and we all filed into the magick room, walking sun wise around the painted circle. Everyone pulled a blade from the wall as we passed so I did as well, choosing a small stone dagger with an antler handle. I raised mine with each cycle around as Grandmother was doing and with her, I placed my blade on the altar next to a giant basin full of fresh cold water from the well.

She raised her arms and turned to the corners, calling on the elements to guide and protect us. I struggled to mimic her every posture and gesture, standing a mere body’s width away from her back. When all four corners had been cast, she took a narrow frame drum from the wall and began to tap a rapid rhythm. I took down a smaller but similar drum and with focus was quickly able to match her beat.
The others in the circle closed their eyes and I could see them calm their thoughts and movements until they all seemed to fade away. Their bodies remained sitting but their souls had gone traveling. As I drummed, I began to try to find a way to still my thoughts, but keep the beat I had started. I thought of my spirit as being two people and set one of them to watching the drumming while the other focused only on my breathing. Just one more. Just one more. Again the mantra from my initiation repeated in my head.

A strange new sensation began to fill me. An emptiness, hollow like an old log in the woods. I was cold, but not uncomfortable and I began to look around me, seeing all the self perpetuated shells that had been left to mark space in the circle. I looked up at the ceiling and was surprised to see sky – I had never noticed that the roof was invisible before. I jumped up towards the roof and to my delight I passed right through where I thought I would find wood and shingles. Grandmother must have taken off the roof! It didn’t occur to me that I would have helped if she had done such an interesting chore recently. The only thing that interested me was the sudden realization that I could fly.

I could fly! I was light as a feather and I swooped and soared in the cool night air beneath the collection of stars. I flew over the tree tops and down the hill to where a bright bon fire burned in the night. The Woodsman family was dancing and singing around the fire. While I watched, John stepped back a few paces and took off running towards the fire. He threw himself up and over the fire, his long legs easily clearing the reaching flames, ensuring good luck and prosperity for his house hold for the year to come.

I remembered how I had spent last Samhain dancing in the garden with Ursa, celebrating my first blood. My heart leapt and it seemed that a blue spark shot out of my chest and into hers. She twitched when it hit and turned towards me, seeming to look right at where I was hovering and I wondered if she really could see me.
As I reached out towards her, to see if she would respond, I could feel myself being pulled back toward my body with more force than the ocean had used to pull the tide back in. Helpless to resist it, I let go and was drawn back into my body, where I settled back inside with a sound like a bell in my ears.

I was suddenly heavy and unwieldly. I had stopped playing the drum, but from the humming still in the room it seemed it was only recently that my hands had stopped moving. As I shook my head to clear the remains of the vivid vision I could see others in the room who looked as dazed as I felt. Still others smiled contentedly as they kept their eyes closed a little longer.

Grandmother stood and placed her frame drum back on it’s hanger on the wall, and I quickly mirrored her actions, returning the small d rum to the spot where it usually hung. Gurek rose and removed a larger drum from the wall, this time shaped like an hourglass. Placing the drum between his knees as he sat on the floor, he began to beat a tattoo on the skin head of the drum with both hands. This was not a steady, single rhythm, but one of intricate design and overlay which begged the feet to dance.

One by one, the men of the circle rose and selected instruments to add their own flavor to the elaborate cadence. I glanced over at Grandmother, watching her closely for a sign to indicate her next movement but she only stood, eyes closed, swaying gently like a reed in the tide. When all the men of circle had joined Gurek’s beat, a steady pulse began to form within the interwoven rhythms.

Gurek stood with his drum and the tempo of the music increased slightly. The other men followed him and soon they were moving slowly, but gracefully, in a tightening spiral towards the center of the room. Gurek snaked backwards and encircled Grandmother with the chain of drumming men and then led the men into a ring in the middle of the room. Literally back to back they pounded on the skin heads of the drums with hands and mallets, sweat glistening on their brows and on the backs of their hands. I could see their pulses quicken at their throats as they began to sing a low, guttural chant that complimented but did not match the established rhythm of the drums.

As the pace of the song escalated, the volume of the singing increased until the men were no longer singing, but shouting. Their voices sounded out in the small room, too loud for the inside. Surely they could be heard ringing through the forest below. Surely John Woodsman had heard the wild call and was echoing it in his own fiery field. The quieter animals of the forest must be paused, trying to appear inconspicuous as the energy from this masculine power cone shot forward and into the night with a final unanimously triumphant call and pounding of drum.

The silence that followed was warm and alive; left the air thick with expectation and energy. The temperature of the room had risen and not only the men were breathing heavily as if from exertion. As I was savoring the rich, almost tangible flavor of the air a single woman’s voice cried out softly.

The sound was almost a moan, almost a wail. The hairs on the back of my neck and all along my arms rose up at this quiet but primal, mournful sound. Across the room another woman wailed softly, simultaneously subduing and increasing the level of energy. An expectancy had come over the room; where once the room held harsh, raw power now it was becoming focused, turning the expectation of the power into an intention with the softer but no less powerful moaning chant from the women.

Those who had been seated stood and began to sway as my Grandmother and I were swaying. The men were still back to back in the center of the circle and Gurek began a different beat; slower, insidiously compelling and almost angular to listen to. With intent as palpable as the energy that was being moved, Grandmother raised both arms to the ceiling, facing the drummers. I quickly shadowed her and saw that all the other women had also followed her lead.

Swaying became more pronounced without warning as the ocean of common energy began to change tides and come in full force. The gentle waves we had been riding became swirling, thrashing eddies, crashing against the internal desires unleashed by the seductive drums. Moving bodies to match minds, we swung out our hips; kicking and leaping and undulating like the sea during a storm. Hands flew wildly in the air, hair splayed out around us we circled the nucleus of our personal magickal cell, building the energy higher and shaping it into an intention that I did not fully recognize but that made me tingle and throb in time with the deepest of the drums.

At the height of the dance, Grandmother removed a wooden goblet from the wall and scooped it into the central bowl, slithering snake-like between the drumming arms of two men to reach the basin. As shadow, I, too, took a goblet from the wall and saw again that all of the women again mirrored the movements of my Grandmother. I danced into the center of the circle and as I watched, a space appeared between two of the men. I took this chance and darted forward, scooping the glistening liquid into the plain looking cup.

As the water filled the cup, time seemed to slow. I could see the two men I had stepped between turn their eyes slightly towards me, glancing not only at the cup but at my body’s slight form. I became aware in an almost painful way of how my stomach was pressed against the shoulder of the man on my left, and how the elbow of the man on my right kept brushing against the thickest part of my thigh.

I froze and searched desperately for Grandmother to get an idea of what I should be doing instead of feeling this peculiar searing awareness of the men I was touching. She was leaning back, still in physical contact with Gurek, whose eyes were glued to her. As I watched, feeling the subtle play of masculine muscle only a few layers of fabric away from my skin, she carefully bent towards Gurek and put the goblet to her own lips, sipping delicately, her gazed locked with his.

Still staring I moved to follow her as the shadow role demanded I should but I was not as accomplished at handling both water and rhythm simultaneously and spilled a goodly portion of the water down the front of my shadow’s dress. I shivered, but not from cold. The water had only served to exacerbate the feeling of sensitivity that played like wind across my skin. Nipples taut; stretching against the clinging wet fabric I saw Grandmother move forward with her lips still on the goblet to place it teasingly against Gurek’s lips. His tongue darted out, scooping up droplets of water like a cat, his eyes never breaking the intimate lock with Grandmother’s.

Women all around the circle were leaning forward, filling the plain looking wooden goblets with moon blessed water and offering it to the drumming men. With relief, I saw that both men I had been standing between were being offered a drink by other women in the circle; there was no one who still thirsted who must drink from my cup.

I stumbled quickly backwards and to the left, behind Grandmother and quaffed the remainder of the water in the goblet as the rest of the group danced and passed the goblets back and forth, pressing their lips against the lip prints of their circle partner.

Raising the goblets, as if led by one person, the women tipped their heads back, exposing their throats, and turned the remains of the blessed water out onto their bare necks. The men beat three more sharp tattoos on the drum heads and placed them on the floor. Standing, they each leaned into the woman who had been tempting them with water and licked the blessed water from the woman’s throat.

With that synchronized motion, the energy in the room spiraled up and out, racing towards the intention that had been silently set by the circle. I shivered, suddenly chilled in the now normal air.

Still in couples, the circle sang the song of thanks and release, the refrain less of a jubilant call of triumph and more like a distant love song carried on the breeze from the camp site next to you.

Moving without a leader, couples still hand in hand, the circle walked counter clockwise around the circle, leaving the magick room and going out into the warmth and friendly consistency of the kitchen.

Later, as I ate one of the crescent shaped breads, I snuck over to the door of the magick room and tipped my head back to look at the ceiling; it was still there – no beautiful night sky this time. I wondered what had happened during the ritual and vowed that this would be one of the topics I would discuss when my year of silence was over.