Marei - book one. Part two: Initiation. Chapter 7

The nights became longer now in earnest, until I was forced to skip my after lunch nap in order to have enough daylight left to accomplish the chores that needed to be done each day. But I was making up for the lack of mid day sleep by bedding down earlier in the evening than I had been before, feeling tired when the darkness descended over the house. Like a small bear, I was hibernating through the cold season.

The snows held off until almost Yule, perhaps because of the proximity of the ocean, but there were storms the likes of which I had never before seen. Rain pelted so hard that tiles were knocked from the roof and on one night I brought the goat into the house because I was afraid she would be blown away by the fierce winds that howled outside.

When the snow did finally bluster in from the north, it stayed cold and deep, with piles as high as my knees on most mornings, and drifts from the wind higher than my head. I put the goat in the shed with the chickens and she contented herself by chewing on the hay I kept laying down for their nests. Between the chicken’s hay, the grain I tossed for both chickens and goat, and the scraps of food from my left over meals, the goat was well fed and gave at least two quarts a day, sometimes more. The chickens continued to lay well, even on the coldest of days, and I soon built up a surplus of eggs, which I kept in a basket and gave to John or Ursa whenever one of them would trek up the hill to check on me.

Yule came and went; visited by the Woodsman family we lit the candles, covered the mirrors, and celebrated the turn from Darkness to Light, though it would be another month until we could see the days get longer again. I missed the sunlight and would often wish that I could go outside and lay on the grass, but even with the snow, cold and solitude, I was still happy there.

As the days became noticeably longer I stopped collecting the eggs from two of the hens in the shed. I had decided as the winter went on that I wanted to keep a flock of chickens for the summer to raise as food and share the meat with the Woodsman family that had been so kind to me. Slowly I had come to realize that I did not intend to leave the House, even when the weather allowed me to make the long journey back to my parent’s house. I was more content here than I had ever been before and I did not want to leave unless I had to.

I still held out hope that Grandmother would come home and begin the training I had been called for, but daily it began to be irrelevant if she ever returned, until I had become accustomed to the idea of being the new steward of the House on the Hill, and considered the House my own. I did not venture into the room that was hers, but I did begin to use the magick room with some regularity; to celebrate at the full and new moon, to give an offering of my monthly blood, and during times when I was feeling particularly sad, alone or afraid, I would walk the circle’s edge and sing until I felt better.

One muddy morning after the equinox, when the birds had started to return to the forest but the garden was still too soggy for planting, she did finally return. The chicks had only recently hatched and I was squatting on the floor of the chicken shed, holding one of the little fluff balls in my hand when I heard the sound of someone approaching. I was not expecting the Woodsman family, and the sounds were not nearly big enough to be any of them, so I poked my head out of the door and looked into the yard, past where the goat was tethered again to her stake.

A slender woman in dark robes whistled merrily out of the woods, on the same path that the Woodsman family regularly used. She stopped on the edge of the clearing with her hands on her hips and looked around her at the yard. Crossing to the goat, she scratched it under the chin and patted its flanks, speaking nonsense words in low tones. With one more rub between its small horns, she circled the garden, bending down to touch a still sleeping plant, caressing the shoots that had already decided to brave the chill of Spring.

She turned around to face the house and breathed deeply, watching the smoke rise lazily into the cloud covered sky. She put her arms up and tipped her head back and just stood, very still for a few minutes. When she dropped her arms, she turned to look at the chicken shed and spoke, as if she had known I was there the whole time. “Marei, come inside and have some tea and tell me of your adventures here while I was gone.”

Her lined face was spread wide in a greeting smile and the corners of my mouth turned up in answer as I stepped from behind the door to the shed. Carefully closing and latching the door so I did not lose any of my new chicks, I hurried towards where she stood with her arms wide for a welcoming hug. I flung myself into her embrace, laughing gleefully. She laughed too, a low musical sound, and we stood looking at each other.

Her hair was long and silver, and braided so it crowned her head, but still hanging half way down her back. Her face was old and marked with the kind of lines that spoke of both thinking and laughing – a fine mix of creases. Her forehead was deeply lined with the sorts of wrinkles that meant grave thoughts and worry on most people, but the severity of these marks were dimmed by soft creases at the corners of her eyes and at the edges of her mouth that were obviously from years of smiling and good humor.

Her body was slight and slender but muscular like a man’s body. She was neither large like Ursa or rounded by childbirth like my mother was and her hands were corded with muscle and callused on every finger. Amazingly, as I watched her smile, she had all of her teeth, which was a great rarity and the teeth that shone in the gray light of the spring morning were straight and only slightly yellowed by time.

She was eyeing me as completely as I was eyeing her and unconsciously I drew myself up and straightened my shoulders, hoping to pass her inspection. I wanted so desperately for her to like me, to be proud of what I had done during the winter while she was gone. My mind was racing to the house – had I emptied the bath tub after I used it recently? Was there a steady supply of wood next to the fire place? Had I cleaned the plates and cups I had used recently? Hoping against hope that the interior of the house would also make a good impression, I walked with her as she turned away from scrutinizing me and went into the house.

Just inside the front door, she stopped and looked from one end of the common room to the other, her observant green eyes missing nothing in the myriad of details to absorb. I nervously followed her gaze, making note that I had actually washed the dishes from the past few days, but had not dried them or put them away; they were still on the counter drying in the air on a piece of towel. The bath tub was emptied and the first buds of the small purple flowers I found poking up from under the last remnants of snow were cheerfully smiling up from a small bowl in the center of the table. My slippers were just inside the door, waiting for me to remove my boots and the bread for my evening’s dinner had risen and was ready to be baked as I sat and relaxed with my customary cup of morning tea.

I felt as though she was assessing my competence and I struggled to look nonchalant as I continued with my routine, making the true owner of the house appear as a guest. I took off my boots and turned them upside down on the wooden pegs I had made to keep the snow from running down inside the boots and slid my feet into my waiting slippers. I had, as usual, already set up the tea pot with the mix that I wanted to drink for that day. I pulled down the pot holder I had stitched from the rag that had been hanging beside the fireplace and poured hot water into the teapot to steep.

I slipped the loaf of bread into the baking space and pulled another mug down from the shelves. It occurred to me that Grandmother might not have had anything to eat yet that morning so I offered her some eggs from the surplus basket and asked her if she wanted some oat meal. Smiling her thanks, she accepted both offers so I set about to cook her breakfast as she drank her tea. A few minutes later I set a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her, with a hot bowl of sugared oatmeal and a cup of fresh goats milk and sat down to drink my own tea as the aroma of fresh bread filled the room.

She ate in silence, but the act of cooking and moving in my familiar pattern around the house had set me at ease and I simply sat and drank tea, not timing the bread as it baked but knowing by scent and the quantity of tea I had consumed when it was finished. Draining the last of my tea, I stood and removed the bread from the baking space with a long flat board and put it on the table to cool.

“I can see you’ve been quite at home here, while I was gone,” Grandmother said and her tone was more amused than accusatory so I smiled.

“I had no choice; by the time I arrived it was too close to winter to try to return to my parents.”

“Do you still long to return to them? Or have you indeed, as it seems, made your home here?”

I looked around the small common room and thought of how I had spent the last 5 months in the peaceful solitude of the house, and how I had already made plans for the upcoming summer and winter; collected seeds, plotted the garden, cuddled the baby chicks. “No, I am home here, if you’ll let me stay.”

Grandmother laughed and clapped her hands together delightedly as a small child would do. “Of course you can stay! I did call you here, after all, and this house has a way of deciding for itself who should stay and who should go. If you feel at home here, then home is where you are.”

She stood, cleaned and refreshed the herbs in the tea pot, and refilled it with the water in the hanging pot that I kept continuously full. “Now, tell me of your adventures here, while I was away – and don’t leave out a single thing!” Leaning forward, with a smile, she poured two more cups of tea and rested her elbows on the table.

We talked late into the night, well past dark and well past when I would normally have gone to sleep. We had not taken a break for anything other than to companionably prepare the stew or visit the outhouse, and later when the stew was bubbling and thick to break bread and eat. When I had pried the last little detail from my memory, we sat in silence, drinking yet another cup of tea.

After a moment, Grandmother stood, stretched and yawned, reaching over her head and then around behind her to stretch her back. “Well, love, you’ve certainly had quite an experience here. But I tell you now that your adventures are only beginning. Tomorrow will be my turn to talk and I will, in turn, tell you where I have been while you were gone and what is next for you as you go forth into your training. For now, though, let us retire to our rooms and sleep. There will be much to discuss tomorrow and more time in which to do so.” She hugged me and together we banked the fire and extinguished the candles in the wall sconces. Then with a wave, we each retired to our own rooms to sleep.

As I lay alone in the bed, but no longer alone in the house, I was so excited about tomorrow’s talks that I thought I would never fall asleep. Much to my surprise, sleep came as easily and quickly as if I had been working hard with my body all day and though it was hours until dawn, it passed as quickly as minutes.