-
The Tale of the Salt Woman, a fairy tale for enlightenment
Sailors sing of desire and longing for the sea, and the crone takes notice. âThere once was a woman who knew best how to long for the sea,â she says, and sits to tell the tale of an impossible visitor to a tavern long, long ago. Listen.
Itâs up to you to find what meaning you will.
There once was a barmaid who worked in a tavern by the sea so that she could feel a part of the worldâs stories.
Ships made reckless port there in a harbor nestled betwixt misted cliffs and sharp rocks. Sailors regularly spilled onto the pier from exotic lands, but one day a woman arrived at the tavern from nowhere.
She was made of salt and wearing a cloak with a hood. She smiled the most mysterious smile.
âHow did you get a salt body?â asked the fascinated barmaid.
âI do not know how I came to be,â said the salt woman with wondrous accuracy. âBut I am a teller of unknowing tales and will enlighten your patrons in exchange for smoked cod and ale.â
The barkeep and sailors laughed, but the salt womanâs unusual beauty tempted them to listen. As it turned out, they were smitten by her strange stories which always ended in mystery. Sailors soon found themselves helplessly composing bits of poetry on rags and stuffing them into empty mugs for her to find.
âYou are the moon fallen to the sea,â many notes read, for her face was round and bright within her dark and hooded cloak.
The barmaid fell in love with the salt woman as well, but in a deeper sort of way. She noticed the steady, inviting pull of the salt womanâs gaze and, over time, developed an inexplicable and soulful longing. This is when it dawned on the barmaid that she no longer desired the brash knowing which wagged from the tongues of sailors. For the salt woman claimed to know nothing at all for certain, and how much better would it be to understand the look of wonder which incessantly played across that moon of a salt face?
One day a cruel pirate fell in love with the salt woman. He stole her away to his ship and quickly set sail, leaving his crew behind so he could have the salt woman all to himself. It did not go well. For the salt woman spent her days and nights attempting to jump overboard.
She would not be possessed.
This enraged the pirate. âStop it this minute!â he shouted, tying her to the helm with ingenious knots.
Soon thereafter, a great storm battered the ship and washed the pirate overboard to drown. The salt woman prayed the ship would go under as did he. She preferred not to live life tied to a helm, but the ship sailed on upon the heaving sea.
Wind took the creaking ship wherever it liked. One morn the salt woman woke and lifted her moon face to see the harbor from which sheâd been stolen, the one with the tavern. And she marveled at the skill it would require to make safe port.
A commotion did arise. Sailors shouted upon sight of the pirateâs ship with its tattered sails. The barmaid ran for the pier ahead of them all, waving her arms and screaming a warning. But the ship did not turn as it should.
âNo!â the barmaid cried out in anguish.
The salt woman looked back over her shoulder and, with a mysterious smile, lifted a pale hand in farewell as the ship broke apart against the sharp rocks and misted cliffs.Â
The barmaid witnessed the salt woman dissolve into the sea.
This is where the story of the stolen salt woman ends. Do not weep, for she was not lost but forever in wonderâŚat first for how she came to be, and later at her immensity.
The sailors grieved but soon returned to their ale, forgetting the gift of the salt woman.
It was different for the barmaid. She refused to leave the pier. There she gazed at the sea for weeks, contemplating the mystery of it all. This filled the barmaid with a longing she couldnât grasp. She felt overwhelming wonder.
Wonder is timeless and thus has power to summon seemingly impossible things.
Of a sudden, the sea swelled into a towering wave, and sailors wailed to see it coming for their ships at anchor. Yet the barmaid stood immovable upon the pier as the waters soared to crest high above her head.
After the wave had fallen and the sea breathed itself back in, the sailors rushed onto the pier to check on their ships.
There they found the barmaid stripped of her longing and transfigured by salt. Â
Standing tall as a pillar and hearing the sailors gasp behind her, she turned to look over her shoulderâ
With a mysterious smile.
If you’d like to share your thoughts or have comments on this tale, I’d love to hear from you! You may do so below đ
Also, if you enjoyed this salty tale and like to make your own meaning of stories, I hope you subscribe to Crone Tales HERE.
*featured image of pier by David Mark
*image of towering wave by Adam Azim
-
The Reign of Pearls & Poison, a fairy tale for enlightenment
Torches make circles of orange light in the dark castle passage. The crone has been here before, many times, to give rescue from what behaves savage. She will lead you to safetyâbut enlightenment is required for suffering to cease. Listen to her tale echoing along the stone wallsâŚlisten, with humility.
Itâs up to you to find what meaning you will.
A king once fell in love with an unusual maiden in a faraway land. They married right away, for they seemed to recognize each other. The king and his new queen returned to his kingdom with its castle on a cliff by the sea. Every evening they held hands as court poets gave them pearls of wisdom for their reign. The maiden who had become queen lived the life of a bloomed red rose, untilâ
The king started doing strange and mean things.
He ordered that the castle must have no more than arrow slits for windows, so their home became dank and dark. He never slept and began to imagine the sins of everyone around him. These he announced after trumpets at court. Knights and peasants alike stood shamed by false or needless accusation, with most being deemed monsters.
âI must weed out the evil to secure my kingdom,â said the king to his queen after spending a lovely spring day inside dark chambers with men in hoods and long robesâhis advisors.
One morning the king summoned the queen out onto the castle battlements. He asked her to keep watch with him, looking out over the forests, cliffs, cove, and sea for what he said could be witches and beastly invaders.
âHis fearful temperament only grows,â said the queen later to her grimalkin. In case you didnât know, a grimalkin is a cat. This one was enormous. And strangely orange.
One evening, the queen heard an odd clinking noise as her husband paced the battlements. Baffled, she peered down at the graceful branches of the dryad forest, expecting to see beautiful trinkets hung there as a gift to the lovely tree spirits. There were none. Her grimalkin hissed and arched its back beneath the kingâs wide-legged stance when his highness stopped to clutch and shake his head. The queenâs gaze snapped to her husbandâs narcissistic face. For verily, the clinking came from inside his brain! âFetch the healers,â the queen ordered once she had the king in bed. But he refused any treatment. Meanwhile, his advisors hummed and covered their ears, pretending nothing was loose within their kingâs head. Â Â
From then on, the king pleased himself declaring his own glory while condemning others as a way to spend his days. Anyone not bowing at his passing were accused of conspiracy against the crown.
You can imagine how the kingâs madness was soon renowned.
The queen walked on her knees after him along the battlements. âYour people must be ruled with pearls, not poison,â she entreated.
The kingâs face twisted. He reached down over the battlement wall where a dryad leaned her tree close to eavesdrop on their conversation. The spirit cried out when he plucked from her wood body. The king turned with a flourish and offered the dryadâs greenery to the queen, saying, âMy dear, think of it as a fig leaf, with which to cover your mouth.â
The queen no longer knew her beloved at all.
When summer arrived, the queen asked for a ship to sail to her homeland for a visit. The king refused. âMy queen will not mingle with dirty foreigners,â he said. âBesides, there are witches where you come from. Even your own sister, is it not true? There are rumors!â Â
The queenâs only comfort was her orange grimalkin. It purred and slipped infinity circles of protection between her slippered feet.
Unwilling to give up hope, the queen invited poets to the battlements to speak their pearls of wisdom within the kingâs hearing. But all the while the kingâs hooded advisors assured him that poison worked better than pearls to secure a kingdom.
The queen became so very cold inside. She locked herself and the weirdly orange grimalkin in her private chamber. There, she crawled into the hearth with its red embers, overwhelmed by belief that she had married nothing more than a beast.
The queenâs tears sizzled where they fell. Her gown smoked and caught fire. This is when she heard the voice of the Crone speak from within the flames:
Your despair is borne of monstrous lies
no different than his hate;
Release your faith in thoughts that hurt–
Speak truth and free your fate!
The queen remembered all the pearls ever given her by poets. One by one she recited them in her head as she went up in a toasted blaze. When it was over, the grimalkin leapt into the queenâs arms, and she emerged from the fire the glowing embodiment of a pearl. For her confusion that life had anything to do with hate or despair was burned to ash.
âI would be cruel, too, if I believed as my husband does,â said the queen to the grimalkin. For her mind was open and willing to see. âMy heart holds compassion for him, yet not senseless loyalty. Itâs clear that I must leave.â
This is how the queen was set freeâby love and clarity. It was bound to happen, for this is the way of things. Understanding always comes. Eventually.
Lightning slashed and thunder crashed. The queen peered through arrow slits in her chamber walls to see an offshore tempest brewing. She stepped out on the battlements to see the dryad forest against the castle waving their leafy handsâthe tree spirits seemed to beckon her, as if with furtive message.
âLook there!â exclaimed the queen. A ship appeared to wait offshore. In the tossing blue sea, she caught sight of moon faces and long tails flipping over. The queen whispered, âIs this your working, Sister?â
The grimalkin bristled and arched its back beside her. The queen sensed danger, too. She ran back to the chamber to see axes splitting her locked chamber door. Falling at the hearth, she grabbed up embers in her hands. She chanted a spell over them. The embers glowed fierce red, and she scattered them on the floor only to turn and grab up more. The door crashed open.
The kingâs guards screamed and fell back as their boots caught fire from a burning stone floor.
âIt will only buy us a little time,â said the queen to the grimalkin. There was nowhere to go but the battlements. There, she found her husband racing toward her. The queen caught up the grimalkin in her arms to hold it tight, climbed to stand upon the top of the battlement with her gown whipped by wind, squeezed her eyes shutâ
And fell back.
A dryad caught her with its arms of branches. Cradling the queen just long enough to gaze at her with solemn goodbye, the tree spirit swiftly passed her on. The queen held her breath as she swished through a blur of rustling leaves in face-filled trees, ever faster at downward angle, when suddenly she felt a slip. A dryad had dropped herâ
Over the edge of the cliff.
Our queen screamed as she plummeted through misted air. Down the steep slope of earth, another dryad leaned into the salty winds. The spirit reached up and caught the queen in its limber limbs in such a way to slow her fallâinto yet another dryadâs branched and waiting arms.
Moments later the queen stood in a daze on the beach of the cove with sticks and leaves in her hair. Amazed at her rescue, she tilted back her head to look up the steep cliff where dryads lashed their limbs at the king and his men giving chase.The grimalkin leapt from the queenâs arms and transformed back to human before touching sand. This was necessary, for grimalkins despise going into the sea for a swim. Even when mermaids are involved. Â
âSister, you planned our escape!â the queen said, throwing her arms around the grinning woman with orange hair. But there came a curdling scream.
The two sisters turned to see the king tumbling down the cliff.
When he came to a stop, it was upon a large rock to crack open his skull. This was a grace, for hundreds of clinking vials of poison popped right out of his head.
âLeave me alone,â the king sputtered into sheets of rain. He scrambled away from his queen. âYouâre a witch!â He squinted, recognizing the brilliant orange hair of the queenâs sister. âWas sheâŚyour cat?â
Bellowing in rage, the king made fists in the sand. He blinked. Opening his fingers, he found vials of poison in his hands. Insane, he shoved them back in his mind as fast as he could.
But not all of them. Â
âDonât leave me,â begged the king, reaching out for his wife. Deep In his eyes, the queen recognized the man she once knew. And yetâŚshe knew he had work to do.
The queenâs sister watched the kingâs men making their battered way down the cliff toward the cove. In a peculiar voice like a grimalkinâs mew, she said to the queen, âCome into the waves, we must go with the mermaids to the shipânow.â
âNo,â said the king. âShe will stay by my side, for I am king!â
Buffeted by gales, the queen knelt before the king one last time. âOur marriage is complete,â she said gentle in his ear.
He grabbed her hand and began to weep. âIf you go, my wife, Iâll never see you again.â
The queen ignored the insistent clicking of mermaid song behind her, as well as her sisterâs plaintive mewing. She pressed her forehead to her husbandâs and spoke with her lips touching his. âBelieving false things doesnât make them true. This is why the damage they do cannot be made real, cannot forever capture you. I will see you again. If not in this life, then another. Or this one over again. I will come to you then, for we must meet until our union is the same as when time first began.â Â
She walked into the waves before the kingâs men could assault her, calling back over her shoulder, âTo save your kingdom you must remember that pearl the poets once bequeathed: Â
âThe unseen truth of you is beauty, for the soul is not a beast.â Â
This story is the Crone’s version of Beauty and the Beast. It’s inspired in part by that whirling dervish Hafiz, who said in his verse that poets are life boats when you need to jump ship.
Featured image of crown by Ruth Archer
Strangely orange cat made so by my youngest, Jared Baker
Ship at sea image by Comfreak–though I added flipping tails of mermaids đ
GORGEOUS DRYAD ART BY JOANNA WOLSKA, who generously gave me permission to use her dryad for this story–THANK YOU!!!
IF YOU LIKED THIS GRIMALKIN-Y STORY, AND YOU HAVEN’T ALREADY, I HOPE YOU SUBSCRIBE TO CRONE TALES.
I love comments, will you please leave one below? Thank you ever so much for reading.
-
The Lullaby of Spindle’s Glass, a fairy tale for enlightenment
Keep in mind as you listen this isnât one of those stories about a sleeping death which maidens so often find themselves caught up inâŚbut something deeper. Something more. Listen closely.
Itâs up to you to find what meaning you will.
There once was a woman who was so old her white hair trailed the ground. She routinely began to catch glimpses of Lady Death watching her from behind The Veil.
The old woman determined she couldnât die without first finding a way to heap wonderment upon her son, for that was all she ever wanted for him. And so, she loaded a cart behind a horse with all she possessedâa scythe and a spindleâand set off into the forest. For where else to find wonder than an enchanted wood?
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lady Death trailing behind, but at a goodly distance. The old woman hoped this meant she had time enough left.
She traveled deeper into the dark forest than anyone ever had before. Still she found no magic, no wonder to take back to her son. Eventually she came to the edge of the worldâthe forest bordered by an endless sea. Here it was always night, always with a full moon. Not only that. The sky, trees, and ocean were all a vivid deep blue.
There was nowhere else to go, and the old woman thought it so peaceful she decided to stop and rest her cracking bones. As fate would have it, she hadnât seen Lady Death in any number of days. âGood,â she said. âFor I refuse to die until my son knows loveâs true wonder.â Â
Setting aside her clothes, she walked into the sea, feeling the tide pull against her long white hairâand her soul. After this she wandered in the blue forest with the moon beaming down through tree boughs, trailing her long white hair behind her.
The next morning she caught a glimpse of Lady Death a ways off in the forest where it was still green. âDonât come for me,â the old woman whispered and hid quick. But she knew she had a problem.
The old woman knew how to make use of what little she had at hand. She put her mind to what solution there might be for Lady Death, and soon devised a plan. With the help of her scythe, the old woman sliced off her long hair near the root, weeping all the while to lose its beauty. Next, she sat at her spindle and spun the white hair into long strands of glass. These she hung in the blue branches of trees until the woods were a shimmering, distorted reflection whichever way she went.
âI am no maiden, but this may save me,â the old woman said, her voice cracking with age as she rubbed her shorn head.
The next day Lady Death entered the blue of the forest at the edge of the world and blinked in amazement at the trees glinting with long, blowing strands of glass. She fast became confused, for she could only find an image of herself wherever she looked. Indignant, she went on her way. Â
The old woman watched with glee. As sheâd hoped, the glass had preserved and kept her safe from Lady Death!
As time passed, the old woman grew ever more frail. When she realized she could no longer climb onto her horse, she felt grief, knowing she would never return to her son. But the wind from the endless sea soothed her by blowing the strands of glass hanging in the trees. This made music like bell chimes, or harp, or violin, and gave her company. Â Â Â
The music was so pristine it called to those believed not to exist:
Fairies.
Unseen for hundreds of years, fairies yawned and peeked out from beneath petal, moss, and leaf all across the land, in wonderment at the music which carried on the wind. As you might guess, they lost no time taking flight with intent to steal whatever instruments could make music so ethereal.  Â
The old woman wept when fairies began to arrive in streaks of green, violet, and gold light. Here at last, sheâd found a source of wonder! She gasped to see what was once her hair, ripple with the afterglow of a fairyâs playful flight. The unexpectedness of it transfixed her. What she felt was sheer delight!
But, oh, how to take this magic back to her son? She wished for him to know it, too. Â
She continued to marvel as the fairies kissed her shorn head and the fragile skin of her hand, dancing to the music plucked by wind upon glass strands.
Once the fairies realized that the old woman had little strength to stand, they built a spiral staircase around the trunk of the biggest, most glassy tree. They helped her climb up and lay her upon a soft bed they made of twined leaves.
They kept vigil as she slept with uneven breath. For they had fallen in love with her delicate limbs, as lovely as a tender sapling.
All the while, more fairies across the land heard the music and woke from their long sleep. There was one particular fairy who, flying over hill and dale in search of the beautiful music which had wakened her, forgot to take care not to be seen. She happened to pass by a stream where the old womanâs son sat unenchanted by the world and in disbelief of unseen things. Â Â Â He screamed in pure astonishment upon sight of a blue dress and bellflowers zipping by. âWas thatâsurely notâa fairy???â He clamped shut his eyes. He gulped and squeaked. Then, for once without thinking, he jumped on his horse to give chase to ânonsense,â all the way to the ever-moonlit forest with its surging sound of bells, harp, and violin.
This is how he came to find his mother up a winding staircase, asleep in the weeping glass tree.
The old woman opened her eyes at the cry of her son. But behind him was Lady Death, who had been watching and waiting for him to seek his mother and had followed.
âTake the glass strands, for my legacy to give is unlapsing wonder,â the old woman said to her son. âItâs all I ever wanted for you.â
As the son watched, his motherâs skin became so thin that he saw the infinite glow of light which had always been within.Â
The fairies fluttered and buzzed in excitement at this wondrous display of magic. They bade the wind to blow and so rock their exquisite old woman in her tree cradle, while singing her a lullaby to a crescendo of music:
Â
Come awake, come awake
The world dawns with your wonder
Come awake, come awake
Let the bough fall out from under
Â
At the last word of the last verse, a great wind rushed in from the endless sea and spun once more the spindleâs wheel. Lady Death swept up The Veil in her arms and let it fall. It passed over the length of the cradle where the woman lay curled.
With the passing complete, her spirit unfurled.
The wind gusted and the bough did break. The cradle did fall. Â
Fairies threw their rarest magic. The old womanâs body, whilst tumbling midair, transformed into a cascade of luminous silver leaves.
The son bore witness as his mother glittered in a shower to the ground. There, in the moonlit forest blue, fairies gathered her up in their arms and spun to the music of glass hair. This whirlwind of fairy and leaves and spirit brought the son to his knees, and he found himself so lost in wonderâHe forgot his every last despair. Â
The dance went on for days until the son grew so dizzy watching he knew he must go. He asked to be given his motherâs body, but the fairies refused, holding tight to the silver leaves with their long tapered fingers.
The son agreed to let the fairies keep her but said, âIn return you must honor my motherâs legacy and allow me to take the strands of glass as she wished.â
The fairies made fierce faces at him, but the son kept his nerve until at last they agreed. He used the scythe to reap his motherâs glassed hair from the blue forest by the endless sea.
The son understood his mother and knew exactly how to love her. He traveled the world with her legacy until countless trees sung a lullaby of spindleâs glass. Hosts of fairies could not resist coming out from their sleepy hiding spots and into the open to dance. And all people everywhere fell into a great wonderment at the unseen being real after all.
This changed everything.
For this is loveâs true wonder:
There is always more to Reality than what is perceived or known.
To this day fairies dance with the old woman. If you see a whirlwind of silver leaves, you may catch a glimpse of tiny wings. Or, an old womanâs wonder-filled eyes.
Her son sees with them all the time.
Â
As for you, the one growing older by the dayâhow can you soothe the hurt of life going by so fast? By turning attention to the promise that the time is ripe for you, the one sweetened by age, to spin your own magic (love) that lasts.
Â
This Crone Tale is dedicated to my three sons for whom I wish a life of wonder, and to my own passed mother.
And, to you and you
and You.
~Cricket Baker
If you liked this spindly story of love and wonderment, I hope you subscribe to receive new Crone Tales by email HERE. đ
I LOVE COMMENTS! You may leave one below. When I hear what people like, it helps me to write more of it.
Featured art of long white hair at night by:
decorative paintings PNG Designed By ĺĺžç˝ from <a ref=”https://pngtree.com/”>Pngtree.com</a>
Blue fairy image by Wikina
-
The wife lost in the midwinter woods, a fairy tale for enlightenment
Stew simmers on the stove and a bright hearthâs fire burns. After a lone walk by pale starlight in the forest dark, the crone returns. She has a wintry tale in mind to tell. Listen. Find what meaning you will.
Â
Â
There was a crone in need of shelter from the bite of a cold winterâs night. She came upon a village and knocked upon the door of a snowy cottage. Â
âI can offer a cup of hot pottage,â said the wife who lived there. Her eyes darted about. âBut then you must go, and quick.â She gestured to a pot that bubbled on a grate over the fire. Â
The crone lifted the first oniony spoonful to her cracked lips as the door banged open. The husband stopped in the doorway, a dead fox slung over his shoulders, and glared at his wife. âWhat is this? Who eats my food?â   Â
The crone gave clear answer. âI am a traveler in need of food and shelter for the night. In exchange I will bless this house.â
âYou are nothing more than a begging hag!â The husband grabbed hold of the crone and tossed her out the door. There she landed on her poor leg, snapping the bone. The crone made no sound but turned to look back. Fixing her eyes on the wife, she blew her a magic kiss. This is the end of the crone in our story. The night was too cold; Iâm sorry to tell you she died in the wind and the snow.
The next morning when the wife woke, it wasnât only with bruisesâthere was fur covering her face.
âThis is all your fault,â complained her husband. He pulled back a fist. âThat hag you let in surely threw a curse with that blown kiss!â The wife ran from the house. The husband gave chase, but she entered the midwinter wood where he dared not follow.
There the wife wandered lost in the white moonless forest in her gown and bare feet. Wind blew and trees leaned at the wife so that she shrieked to get away. This, on top of howling wolves. When a pale dawn arrived, she found a tree set apart from the rest, with a door set into the ancient wood atop gnarled roots.
She knocked, and when no one answered, she let herself inside the burrow.
Inside she discovered a table with chair, a small bed, and a hearth stacked with wood. Straightaway she made a fire to warm herself. Once her body stopped its shivering she climbed into the bed beneath the quilt, exhausted. The howling kept up, but then woods are meant to have wolves.
Our wife slept all day and back into the night. Once awake she quickened the fire and made herself a meal from a sack of seeds found in the cupboard. With her belly goodly filled, she set about tidying the tree burrow to clear its blanket of dust. This is how she found a hooded red cloak beneath the bed and soft boots that fit her feet.Â
âI wonder if I might stay,â she told the tree and heard its branches stir. Feeling cozy and most welcome, she decided not to return to her village for the time being, for who there would take kindly to her face with its fur?
By day she walked the white woods, talking all she pleased, giving her opinions to various trees on a myriad of things. Mushrooms grew in the snow for her to find. Winter berries, too. Once upon an evening a pack of wolves tracked her as she went along, but when she turned her furry face upon them, they bowed. After this she found rabbits left upon her doorstep. With these she made a tasty stew.
Each night she buried deep in her bedâs quilt and with drowsy eyes gazed at the hearthâs glowing embers. The burrowâs branches swished above her head and creaked most pleasant in the wind. She felt safe.
One day as our woman took a walk amidst flurries of snow, she noticed strange stitches in the sky. An unseen hand sewed more and more stitches until the heavens bruised black and blue. At last, she realized that the stitches were not stitches but birds. They made an awful sound like none other sheâd ever heard. The ravens easily spied her bright red cloak moving swift in the white forest below. They dived from the sky, breaking branches to reach our woman and fly about her in a whirlwind of black wings. She fended off their sharp talons as she ran for her burrow. Once inside, she slammed the door only to fall back on her bottom as birds pelted into the wood. She heard her beloved tree groan with the weight of countless ravens landing upon its branches. This made her angry.
âWhat do you want?â she hollered through the door.
A solitary screeching voice bid her greeting and said:
âWe seek a rib!â
âA what?â
âA rib, a certain husbandâs wife, are you she? This wife must return to her husbandâs side from whence she came. Tell us the truth, what is your name? Do not lie, or we will know. A sorcererâs spell is cast upon us to tell us so.â
And then the unkindness of ravens shrieked in awful chorus over and again:
Please, if we donât find the rib,
We shall suffer the blame.
Must we peck out your eyes?
Just tell us your name!
Our woman clutched her ears, so horrible shrill did the ravens sing. She opened her lips to give her name to make the chorus stopâ
And couldnât be more surprised to find that she could not.
The notion of a name seemed absurd. How could she have one and whatever would it be? For her mind was as clear and vast as the sky, and she breathed into her lungs the traveling wind. Her being was no less deeply rooted than the standing trees. Her dreams moved with the moon, and she had rivers of lifeâs blood flowing within her veins. What had happened was this:
Sheâd become so wild sheâd forgotten her name!
Thatâs when she knew.
âI am of the earth, not of a man,â she said, astonished.
You should know that when any woman comes awake, she suddenly sees this exact same thing. Never mind old stories which proclaim that in the beginning woman was born of a man. Forgive my old womanâs laughter, but everyone knows it never happens that way. Â Â Â Â
Think on this and see. And ask what the purpose of men telling things backward might be!
As for our wild woman of the earth, she opened the burrow door and told the ravens: âI am most definitely not a rib. Not only that. I have no name to tell you that is wholly true. For I am me, but also wind and river and tree.â
The sorcererâs spell upon the birds made certain this confession was accepted as pure fact. âYou are not the rib we seek,â the birds shrieked and beat their wings to fly away and never come back. Â Â
Nameless. Wild. And free. Our woman delighted that she now possessed a knowing like none other sheâd had before. What this meant was this:
Sheâd never after be deceived.
What a very good thing! For when the sorcererâs ravens couldnât find what the husband wanted back, he gathered what courage he had and set out into the woods. Eventually he found the tree burrow and peered through its window to see a woman with a furry face tending a fire inside.
âYou must come home now,â he called out to her. For he was weary of burnt suppers.
Our wild woman opened the door in surprise. Looking into his eyes, she could see he had not changed. He was not wild as she but remained unnatural with false storiesâhe was tamed. This is how she knew it best to say nothing at all to him and went to shut the door. But firstâ
She offered him a wolfish grin.
And he ran all the way home.
Â
Â
Okay, so this one is a smidgen longer than flash fiction is supposed to beâŚbut I couldnât cut any more words, my apologies!
A little commentary: This story is not at all meant to be anti-men. I have a husband and three sons whom I love and adore. No, itâs meant to point to equality, nothing more.
What isnât separate but is like unto all the world is just plain difficult to give a name, is it not? Just as our wild woman discovered.
And as, perhaps, may you. There is no need for you to âmake a nameâ for yourself. How much better to fall into the thrill of being whole by blending into all the beautiful world? You can choose to be:
Nameless. Wild. And free.
If you found meaning in this wild tale, I very much hope you subscribe to CRONE TALES.
I so love comments! You may leave one below:)
Â
