Her
Rebecca Poole
The shriveled little man scuttled along the thick underbrush and thorny vines that made up the hidden path spiraling upward around the mountain. Mumbling about the heretics who called him insane, he nimbly wove his way along, avoiding the razor sharp daggers the vegetation threatened to thrust into his dirty, tender flesh. The hidden path ran the entire length of the mountain, beginning at the bottom in a copse of trees, weaving in and out of the vegetation and rocks that made up the formation of the small mountain until it opened into a clearing at the top. The clearing was free of any dirt or debris. He had made sure to clear it away, making certain that it was perfectly smooth. The chamber within was free from insects and dust, and everything sparkled when a stray ray of sunshine managed to sneak its way inside.
His body, once strong and supple, had withered from age and use. His once bulging muscles, while still strong, were mere ropes holding his fragile bones together. He traversed the treacherous climb daily, making the two hour trek without fail. It did not matter if he was sick, or injured, it had not even mattered the one time his wife had been in labor. His faith was unwavering and his resolve the same. He would make certain the chamber was ready for Her arrival.
Concerned that there was not anyone else to pick up where he left off, having seen over eighty winters, he knew his time on the planet was coming to an end and had prepared for that in the best way possible. The regret of losing his only child that harsh long-past winter washed over him for a moment. He had not meant to let Her down. It was his wife who had done that, who had long left him to the ‘ramblings of a crazy person’, and he had forgotten long ago what it was like to be in like minded company.
Taught from birth, his belief in Her was deeply ingrained. He had never dreamed or thought that others would not understand and believe. How could they not see Her designs in their lives everywhere? The violence and hatred that plagued humanity, much less the planet, was a sure sign of Her return. He was surrounded by unbelievers! Heretics all of them! They deigned him beneath them, an insect or worm to be crushed. The taunting had lessened as he grew older, perhaps because the sport of teasing an old man was looked upon poorly and in distaste. When he was younger, there had been the fists, many of them. Some they had thrown. Others, he’d thrown in defense of Her, and of his belief in Her. He had received broken bones, bloody noses, and countless bruises in his devotion to She Who Rules the Blood and Night. Never once did his faith in Her waver. He knew that She would return, perhaps not in his lifetime, but it was inevitable.
For generations, his family had prepared and guarded the cave hidden at the top of the mountain. The family had been much larger when they had first been tasked with this most important of undertakings. If he were honest with himself, it was much easier when he was not alone with his thoughts. While he had never lost faith in Her, he had felt isolated and abandoned a multitude of times. An entire world of blasphemy and dissidence surrounded him, waves of crushing disbelief and heresy trying to throw him overboard into a killing sea. He had tried searching for others like himself, even going so far as to try sharing Her gospel to the local masses, but to no avail. He was alone, but steadfast in his daily rituals, regardless.
He had made the mistake of attempting to share Her knowledge with a small group of almost-grown children, thinking he could guide and teach them Her ways of Blood and Night. He could still hear the mocking laughter that bounced around the chamber’s smooth, glittering black walls. They had laughed as they lifted the altar stone his grandfather had carved by hand, a beautifully crafted labor of love, the love they had destroyed upon the floor, pieces scattered and broken, strewn everywhere. He had been so incensed that used the very machete that cleared their path earlier to silence the heathen unbelievers forever. Throats were cut in movements so quick a snake would have been in awe of the old man’s speed and precision. He had purified their desecration of Her holy place of worship and had buried the four bodies outside of the mouth of the chamber’s cave, in the overgrown brush, easily hiding them. Their bodies were never found, and the nutrients the underbrush received provided for more ample growth, which he did not mind tending to.
Every morning, he marched along the path without fail, to begin the daily cleansing required for Her arrival. He diligently cleared away leaves that had fallen, each one a marker of the time passing until Her return. In the growing season, the brush was his marker of days, measured daily with his devotion until it had become too overgrown for him to traverse. Then, he would hack away with a machete, the friction from the leather wrapped handle blistering his gnarled hands.
At times, the blisters would burst, blood slicking the handle, making each swipe of his arm flow with more purpose. He viewed the scars on his palms as badges of honor and devotion. Sometimes lying alone at night, he would touch the marks that decorated his body, his cause to celebrate. After all, he received them from his preparation of Her imminent return. Broken bones would heal as he had often proven. Once, in his much earlier years, a misstep had broken his leg, so he improvised a splint made of surrounding branches and his raggedly torn shirt. His wife had sneered at his return, thinking he would be unable to attend to his duties. It had taken him longer, but completed they were.
Moving with a grace that belied his advanced years, the withered old man mumbled prayers to Her as he paced around the chamber. There was never time for the dust to gather or for more than a few leaves to blow inside because of his diligence to his calling. He knew, one day, he would see results, either in this life or the next.
This particular morning, as he cleaned the already spotless chamber, he witnessed the most miraculous sight to grace his tired but sharp eyes. There, upon the altar he had so painstakingly constructed from stone, lay the most beautiful and wondrous creation. Proof of Her existence was within his grasp. He knew if he were careful, he could carry the small chrysalis to the bottom of the mountain and silence the heretics forever. This pulsating, undulating piece of shining creation would make them regret the day they denied Her existence.
As his hands reached to touch the chrysalis, a thought came to him. What if his touch disturbed Her and caused Her to leave again? What if showing them how wrong they were did not have the desired effect? What if they decided they wanted to stop Her? Or what if they wanted to keep Her to themselves, or even worse, desecrate what could be Her very beginning? He could not take that chance. He would have to be even more steadfast and unwavering in his crusade.
He was certain that this was the beginning of something fantastical and great. He was bursting with pleasure and excitement, yet holding back his screams of delight and wonderment made his skin feel tight and too small for his body. He did not know how long it would take for Her to finish growing, but he would wait and prepare as long as he had to, until drawing his last breath into heaving lungs.
Legs practically skipping with joy, he finished his cleansing ritual, and began the long trek down the mountain. Rushing along the street, he spied his tiny home and yearned to be back in the chamber with her; waiting, praying, and dreaming of what She would look like. How would She feel, should She grace him with that knowledge. He dared dream of how Her voice sounded, imagined the dulcet tones, those unspoken words sending quivering waves of happiness down his spine.
One of the townsfolk called out to him as he passed her walkway. “Still on your crazy quest, old man?” she laughed, her voice assaulting his ears.
He told her that she would regret not believing. “Never know when She’ll arrive! She Who Rules Blood and Night! She is coming!!”
“Crazy old fucker, that’s what you are. Get on with you!” Her face twisted in disbelief and hate as she continued, “Religion is a product of the past, unnecessary. Only old fools like you entertain the useless notion of worshiping a long dead goddess. Probably never even existed, if you ask me.”
Shaking his head as he entered his tiny little wooden house, he realized he could still see his breath inside, so he set his
kindling aflame in the fireplace. He would need to eat soon. Keeping his strength up was a priority. While he would go to the chamber no matter how he felt, he worked very hard to make certain he was as healthy as possible for Her. He never knew when She would need him for something.
He had never been lucky enough to have a visit from Her in his dreams, but his great-great-grandfather had, and it had changed him. He’d once been an abusive drunkard, but afterward his demeanor had been forever altered. He became calm and sober, a stoic man, steadfast in his belief of Her that he had passed down through the generations—until only one believer remained.
He ate his repast of lukewarm soup and day old bread quickly, and then cleared his supper dishes away, stacking them haphazardly in the sink to be washed later. He wanted to sit quietly with his thoughts, to luxuriate in the fact that only he knew of what lay on the altar. He straightened his spine at the realization that HE was Her protector now, that HE had to make certain She was safe and unmolested as She grew.
He smiled happily, wondering what Her first words would be to him. He knew that she would understand the sacrifices he had made in his life for Her and that She would be gracious and kind to him. He did not care about the others, for their disbelief would be their undoing. After all, his family had told them over and over again of Her imminent return to the world.
The following weeks ebbed and flowed like a soothing tide as he walked to and fro, cleaning and polishing, singing and praying. He had decided to try to tell the citizens one more time of Her existence, but they refused. Their sneers cut into his heart while their spittle struck his hands and feet. He decided that he had pleaded his case for the last time. Let them drown in their own tears of shock and awe once She had revealed Her presence.
Already, the night grew darker, stars winking out one by one as the prophecy foretold while the winter grew even colder as the chrysalis grew larger. Tracing his way up the hidden path, he wondered how much more the chrysalis had grown. At first, it had barely shown any signs of expansion, then one morning, he arrived to behold a growth of over a foot in length and girth.
The pulsating tubular shape began to show signs of something moving inside, and if he stared long enough, he caught a glimpse of a foot or hand pressing against the skin of the cocoon, stretching it thinner, struggling to escape. He had dared once to touch his hand to Hers, and he was overcome with emotion, tears streaming down his face. She was almost there, and he could not wait for his eyes to feast upon Her glorious sight. He was content to wait until She decided to grace him with her presence. What were a few months more? He had already dedicated his entire life to Her, preparing the chamber, as was his divine purpose. He lived for serving Her and thought of the many ways he could be of use after She was reborn.
One particularly cold morning, with a brilliantly bright and full moon still shining its rays upon him, he realized as he approached the chamber that there was light coming from within the normally darkened interior. He rushed inside, marveling at the sight of the chrysalis pulsating in a staccato of brilliant light. The sound of a thousand wings vibrating madly filled the hollow chamber. His heart matched the beat, and he grew lightheaded with excitement and reverence.
Ripping sounds reached his ears and in a burst of blood and viscous fluid, She stood before him, glorious and strong, veined wings fluttering madly to rid themselves of the gore left from Her rebirth. As he lay prostrate, a clawed hand caressed his flesh. He shuddered in ecstasy when She said, “Thank you for your servitude, John.”
He sighed in contentment when he felt Her razor sharp teeth tear into his flesh, for the knowledge that his blood and flesh would nourish Her until she left the chamber to reclaim the world. It was Hers, Nychta's, She of the Blood and Night, to rule.
A Goddess’s Revenge
Catherine Stovall
Not all goddesses are born gentle keepers of mankind. Not all deities are the type that offers pleasantries and hope. Some bring death and revenge down on the world with the might of their ancient powers.
The Goddess Kel woke with the spring, just as the first layers of frost began to melt away from the hawthorn bushes, and the new sprouts of grass rose through the fertile land of Wade. She emerged from the protective spell that had hidden her for more than fifteen hundred years as if she were a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. The first stirrings of her consciousness sent a wave through the universe. Many noticed the change, but few knew what the strange sensation meant. The world had forgotten, but she would soon remind them all.
Days passed as Kel lingered in the misty place between sleep and full awareness. She listened to the people of the strange new era. She heard them pray to names she did not recognize. The mass of voices pleaded for safety, love, good health, and multitudes of other things. When she had gained all the knowledge she could from the people of Wade, she turned cold.
The women of the land cried. They told her of the nightmares that spread like wild fire. Rape, murder, and endless consumption seemed to deplete everything the new gods touched. The victims’ appeals traveled the currents of the air, bringing a soiled taste of ruin from all over the globe. Where once women had ruled and been revered, nothing but hate remained.
Angered and saddened by the horrors, Kel allowed her spirit to rise from its place within her body and venture outward. She turned the barren soil in her hands, whispered through the burned boughs of the trees, swam in the poisoned waters, and rode the winds that stank of blood. Her spirit wept. Some of the voices of Wade still prayed to the Earth Goddess Nia and her right hand, the Warrior Enneth. They did not know that she, Kel, had inherited the world. They only knew that if a Goddess of Nature did not soon rise, they would not be able to fight the decay of a once proud,matriarchal society.
Nia and Enneth, her parents, had led her to a place of safety within the private gardens where she had spent the previous fifteen hundred years. At the time of its creation, the massive statue had been carved from the natural rock wall along the river. Designed to provide a sanctuary for the goddess and her family, it had been their favorite place to entertain the faithful.
The artist had honored them by perfectly rendering Nia’s capacity for love, tenderness, and power, and Kel’s mother had named the sanctuary, The Keep. The effigy perched just on the edge of the cliff where it overlooked the river in a seated manner. An expression of reflection and adoration had been permanently chiseled on her face as she bent to rest her hand affectionately on the head of a serpent that, at one time, had sprayed a geyser of water from its mouth. Her great mane of hair had been molded from the prehistoric stalactites and hung in a craggy display of beauty.
Inside the grand figure, rooms had been carved to house a massive library, and an area for the orchestra to play while commoners, gods, and goddesses all danced together in the ballroom. For the family, private chambers for dining, resting, and business had been created as well. There were also secret rooms. Hidden alcoves offered safe keeping for things too powerful to be touched by common hands. It was within one of these rooms that Kel had rested.
In the time before the war had begun, all the cultures of Wade had worshipped the Earth Goddess Nia. She had many names then, and she had answered to all. In her wisdom, she had guided the commoner, the wild beast, and the land. She had taught the women of Wade how to rule. She had loved them, protected them, and had cast judgment on those who did evil. The infiltration had come slowly. New deities had arrived one by one. Nia had allowed her people to sway, foolishly certain they would see she was the true goddess and come back to her.
A deadly plague had swept across parts of Wade, claiming the lives of twenty-five million of the Earth Goddess’s children in a painfully slow death. Nia and Enneth battled against the brutal attack and its instigator, but other catastrophes struck. Volcanoes had risen out of the ground, belching lava. Massive tsunamis swept the coasts, and immense quakes ripped deep chasms in the land. Great empires had gone to war, and the people who followed the new gods had bu
rned everything they crossed. The planet and Nia’s power had weakened under the constant onslaught.
Correlating their attacks, the other gods had waited until the last vestiges of Nia’s power and Enneth’s strength began to slip before they sent the meteor. The colossal rock had broken apart just above Wade’s atmosphere, and several pieces plummeted down on the land, separated by nearly half the planet. A giant cloud of dust had risen up from the destruction as other natural disasters had torn their way across anything untouched. Inhibited by the filth that clung in the air, the sun could not provide for the land and the crops died, spreading famine as well as disaster and war.
The people, lost amongst the chaos, blamed the Earth Goddess and the women that ruled in her name. They had sworn vengeance and pledged their loyalty to the new gods. They destroyed Nia’s gardens and burned her village. The roads throughout Wade turned to muck with the blood of the women who had served the people. The only thing that remained untouched, due to the unbreakable shields surrounding it, was The Keep. Nia and Enneth had died fighting, leaving only their daughter and a promise behind. That day played through the haze of Kel’s sleeping mind clearly.
She saw herself as she stood in the chamber. Her father and mother, weak and fading, had kissed her goodbye. “There will come a time when the heart of Wade will falter. The people, though they turn on you now, will seek out one who can guide them. You, our daughter, will be the Earth Goddess. Awakened by tragedy, you will cleanse the taint from nature and restore the balance.” Her father’s words had not been comforting enough to soften her mother’s tears.
Nia had added her own trembling voice, “Kel, this is your destiny, as it was once mine. Be fair, be kind, and most of all, be true to yourself and the world of Wade. All else will come.” Stepping forward, she tied a leather strap that held a single peach seed around her daughter’s neck. “This will help you remember your roots.”
Rise of the Goddess (****All proceeds from the Rise of the Goddess anthology will go to benefit the Elliott Public Library**** Book 1) Page 8