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  “Doesn’t matter,” Marjo answered. “You’ve got me. At least for the night. Now can we go get dry. And warm?”

  “Dry,” Selna echoed. “Warm.”

  “Right,” Marjo said.

  It seemed so sensible, and she suddenly was shivering so uncontrollably, that Selna turned, plowed through the pool on stiffened legs, and stumbled up the embankment to the fire, which was all but out. She fed logs into it and more sticks and leaves, Marjo exactly following her movements. With two working, the fire was quickly renewed, though it took much longer for the warmth to seep through and make them both stop shaking.

  The Legend:

  Near the town of Selsberry is a small pond, fed by an underground stream. It is called Sisters’ Pond or Sels Pond. It is said that once a year, at the Spring Solstice, when the moon is at its highest point overhead, the mist rising up looks just like a beautiful young woman. The mist woman will call you with her mist arms beckoning. “Come to me, come to me,” she calls over and over. But you’d better not go. If you do, she’ll drown you, just as she was, herself, drowned some hundreds of years ago when that underground stream was a great, roaring river. At least that’s what the folks in Selsberry say.

  The Story:

  Selna got dressed quickly and Marjo matched her, leather pants, linen shirt, leather jerkin, mocs. It was like a dance, really, the way they kept time to one another. Selna had known what to expect, of course. She had been around other women’s dark sisters all her life. But expecting and knowing, it seems, were two very different things.

  In the end Selna strapped on the belt and knife and grabbed up her bow. Marjo did the same.

  “Are you really very like me?” Selna asked at last. She thought Marjo looked older, guanter. It might have been the black hair, the darker features. It might have been the moonlight.

  “Very like,” Marjo said. “And not like at all.”

  Selna put out the fire with her moc. Together they buried the coals. There was still enough moon to keep Marjo quick and eager.

  “I need to get out of the woods. I’m—”

  “We need to get out of the woods. One moon time is bad enough. Two is an open invitation,” Marjo said.

  Selna hadn’t thought of that. “What if a cat gets me?”

  “It gets me, too.” Marjo laughed, though her face hardly changed with the humor. “I guess it is true as the Book says: Sisters can be blind.”

  “I…am…not…blind to this,” Selna said. She found no humor in the situation.

  “You do not know how to laugh. In this way we are different. And in other ways. I am you, and I am also what you will not let yourself be.”

  Selna turned away. “I have no wish to be what you are.”

  “If your mouth turns into a knife, it will cut off your lips, or so it is said where I come from.” Marjo had turned away, too, and her voice got very quiet. “You may not wish to be what I am, but we are together. Forever.”

  “Forever?” Selna turned back.

  “At least as long as you live.”

  Selna was thinking so hard about that, she did not hear the sound. The first she knew there was a cat nearby was when he had launched himself, hitting her square in the back. Without hesitating, even as she was falling, she drew her knife.

  The Ballad:

  Ballad of the Cat’s Bride

  Do not go to the woods, my girl,

  Red ribbands in your hair,

  Do not go to the woods at night,

  For Lord Catmun is there.

  He’ll spring upon you silently,

  He’ll leave you there for dead,

  He’ll take away your virtue

  And leave you a babe instead.

  He’ll take away your virtue,

  And he’ll take away your name,

  And leave you but a weanling child

  To carry to your shame.

  Do not go to the woods, my girl,

  If you a maid would stay,

  Do not go to the woods at night,

  Go only in the day.

  The Story:

  As Selna turned, knife in her hand, she thrust upward. The cat thew back his head at the same time as if trying to fight something behind him. Then he screamed—an awful sound—and collapsed on top of Selna.

  She pushed him off and stood up shakily. “What…?” she began. Then she saw the knife in the cat’s back and Marjo looking at her oddly.

  “Lucky you drew your knife so I could draw mine,” Marjo said.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “That’s a good start,” Marjo said. “Let’s skin this cat down quickly and go. It’s spring. There might be a mate.”

  “There’s sure to be one,” Selna said. “But she’s probably laired up with kits.”

  That was the last they spoke, working side by side as easily and as silently as old friends. Or new enemies.

  When they were finished, another night was all but gone. They started on the path together, but the moon could find them only intermittently. Each time it disappeared, so did Marjo.

  When they reached the road at last, the moon was slowly setting behind the hills. It was long gone by the time Selna got to the gates of her Hame alone.

  Her mother was sleeping on Selna’s bed, her cheeks still wet with tears. Selna got in beside her and put her head against her mother’s back. “I am a woman now,” she whispered, loud enough to be heard, quiet enough not to waken anyone.

  Her mother stirred, turned in her sleep. A stray strand of white-gold hair fell across her mouth. Selna carefully picked it off and smoothed it back. “But that doesn’t mean I have to forget, does it?”

  Her mother woke briefly. “Forget what, dear?” she mumbled.

  “I will never forget her,” Selna whispered. She stood and took the guttered candle from the bedside, walked out to the hearth to light it. As she bent over the fire, a voice whispered in her ear.

  “I will never forget her, either.”

  Selna turned. And looking into her other, darker eyes, at last she smiled.

  The Myth:

  Then Great Alta drew aside the curtain of her hair and showed them her other face, her hidden face. It was dark where she was light. She was two and she was one. “And so ye shall be,” quoth the two Atlas. “So shall all my daughters be. Forever.”

  Journey into the Dark

  TRANSLATION FROM THE ALTAR stone at the great temple at Chichén Itzá, excavated May 14, 2030

  Let me tell you a story my children. When the young prince Ho ch’ok lay dying on his small bed, he had around him the four that he loved best. Kneeling by his head was his lady mother, the queen, who had pulled out all the pins from her hair in mourning and likewise the pin from her lip.

  His brother, the king-that-was-to-be, Qich Mam, sat by his feet; tears kept in check by the slow breathing he had been taught since a child.

  His sister, who was to have been the young prince’s bride, sat closer to his heart, by the left side, the tears like rivers running down her unpainted cheeks.

  And standing at the bedfoot was his old nurse, weeping loudly and beating upon her bosom with a closed fist.

  The young prince Ho ch’ok opened his mouth to speak and all four about him fell silent, for his voice was but a whisper. He reached out his hand and his sister took it loosely in hers.

  “I am afraid,” Ho ch’ok said, for though he was a prince he was, still, a small boy. “I am afraid of the journey. I am afraid of the dark.”

  “Then,” his mother said softly, “I shall give you something to light the way.” She plucked her heart from her breast and held it out to him. And when he took it, it shone with a light that was even and white.

  “And I will give you that which can tell dark from light,” said his sister, plucking out her third eye and putting it on his forehead. “It can tell the hard places from the soft.”

  “And I will give you a weapon that you shall not be afraid,” said his brother, breaking off a
little finger, the last one on the left. He placed it on his brother’s chest.

  “But still I am cold,” said Ho ch’ok. “So cold.”

  At that the nurse took a great leather wallet which was hanging from a thong on her belt. She opened it and there was the young prince’s foreskin. Since he had not yet wed his sister, the foreskin was as soft and supple as the day it had been cut from him. The old nurse took it from the wallet and shook it out, and it became as great and as wide and as warm as a cloak, and she wrapped him in it.

  And the young prince smiled, closed his eyes, and rose up out of his body for his journey, leaving but a roughened hulk behind.

  The first step he took went to the East where the sun hit him full in the face, leaving a bright red scar on his cheek. The next step he took went to the South where a branch of the world tree slapped him across the chest, and a sliver of wood slipped in under his nipple into the meat of his breast. The third step took him to the West where the wind whirled his cape up over his head and burnished his buttocks with hot sand.

  But the fourth step took him to the North and the Cavern of Night, where all those who die have to go.

  The way into the cavern was dark and winding, like the stomach of a serpent. Ho ch’ok held aloft his mother’s heart. The light it cast crept into all the pockets of the dark and sent the shadows screaming silently from its rays. At that Ho ch’ok smiled.

  But as he went deeper into the cavern, even his mother’s heart light grew dim.

  “Oh, my mother,” cried the young prince, “what am I to do?” And receiving no answer, he reached into his own breast through the opening made by the sliver of the world tree. But his heart would not leave his body, for he was not a woman. Still, there was just enough light from the opening of his chest with which to see, and so he went on.

  After a while, he came to a cavern flooded with water that seemed to be both red and black. Ho ch’ok stopped, and bent close to the water but he could not tell if it was possible to cross.

  He opened his sister’s third eye and saw that that which was black was, indeed, water; but that which was red was a bridge of smooth stones. So being careful to step only on the stones, he started to the other side.

  He was halfway across when his sister’s eye, being tired, closed. And as he was a man he had no third eye of his own.

  “Oh, my sister,” cried Ho ch’ok, “what am I to do?”

  He would have thrown himself down and wept except that a man does not do such a thing, except that he did not know how to tell the wet places from the dry. But as the first tear touched his cheek, it touched also the red scar. And where it touched the scar, the tear turned aside.

  The young prince felt the turning of the tear, and so he bent down and, gathering up a handful of black water in his hand, he splashed it against his face. Where it touched the scar, the water turned roughly aside. So then Ho ch’ok did throw himself down, but not to weep. And when his face touched the water, the water rushed away from his sun scar and in this way he was able to walk upon dry land.

  Soon he came to the farthest side and there he stopped, for ahead, in the feeble light, he could see three diverging paths. Guarding the paths was a giant vulture, the curved knife of its beak snapping at the shadows. At its feet were the bones of false princes who had gone before.

  “Oh, my brother, Qich Mam,” said the young prince, “may I use the weapon you have given me well.” He took out the finger which had been kept in a pouch around his neck and held it in his right hand. There it grew and grew until it was a great spear as strong as muscle, as sharp as bone.

  When the vulture saw the spear, it laughed, a sound like death itself, and the bones at its feet rose up and assembled themselves into a cage whose door gaped wide. Then the vulture sucked in a great breath which pulled Ho ch’ok forward until he was all but in the cage.

  But the young prince took his spear and flung it at the vulture. It pierced the great bird’s breast, but not very deep. With a snap of its curved knife of a beak, the vulture snapped the spear in two.

  “Oh, my brother,” Ho ch’ok cried, “what am I to do?”

  The vulture leaned down and picked up the young prince by the back of his cape and shook him from side to side. But Ho ch’ok, like his brother, knew the trick of the little finger. Still, he did not break that one off, but instead broke the second finger, the one with which a man points to his eye to show that he understands. The finger grew into a spear even greater and sharper than the one Ho ch’ok had had before. With one mighty thrust, he pierced the vulture’s breast exactly where the first had gone, thus sending the piece of Qich Mam’s spear straight into the monster’s heart.

  Then Ho ch’ok gathered up the vulture’s bones and locked tight the bone cage. Next he looked at the three paths, hoping to find a sign pointing the way.

  The left path was rocky and narrow and there was barely room for a man to pass. The right path was smooth and wide, and an army could walk between. But the path in the middle was as dark and hidden as a secret.

  Wrapping his cloak tightly around him, and trusting to the light of his heart, the young prince Ho ch’ok chose the secret path because the unknown way always holds the deepest rewards. And it was this path that led him safely to the garden of delights where all true princes live forever.

  And if you, my children, can unriddle this tale, at the end of your days you may live in that garden as well.

  The Sleep of Trees

  “Never invoke the gods unless you really want them to appear. It annoys them very much.”

  —CHESTERTON

  IT HAD BEEN A long winter. Arrhiza had counted every line and blister on the inside of the bark. Even the terrible binding power of the heartwood rings could not contain her longings.

  She desperately wanted spring to come so she could dance free, once again, of her tree. At night she looked up and through the spiky winter branches counted the shadows of early birds crossing the moon. She listened to the mewling of buds making their slow, painful passage to the light. She felt the sap veins pulse sluggishly around her. All the signs were there, spring was coming, spring was near, yet still there was no spring.

  She knew that one morning, without warning, the rings would loosen and she would burst through the bark into her glade. It had happened every year of her life. But the painful wait, as winter slouched towards its dismal close, was becoming harder and harder to bear.

  When Arrhiza had been younger, she had always slept the peaceful, uncaring sleep of trees. She would tumble, half-awake, through the bark and onto the soft, fuzzy green earth with the other young dryads, their arms and legs tangling in that first sleepy release. She had wondered then that the older trees released their burdens with such stately grace, the dryads and the meliade sending slow green praises into the air before the real Dance began. But she wondered no longer. Younglings simply slept the whole winter dreaming of what they knew best: roots and bark and the untroubling dark. But aging conferred knowledge, dreams change. Arrhiza now slept little and her waking, as her sleep, was filled with sky.

  She even found herself dreaming of birds. Knowing trees were the honored daughters of the All Mother, allowed to root themselves deep into her flesh, knowing trees were the treasured sisters of the Huntress, allowed to unburden themselves into her sacred groves, Arrhiza envied birds. She wondered what it would be like to live apart from the land, to travel at will beyond the confines of the glade. Silly creatures though birds were, going from egg to earth without a thought, singing the same messages to one another throughout their short lives, Arrhiza longed to fly with one, passengered within its breast. A bird lived but a moment, but what a moment that must be.

  Suddenly realizing her heresy, Arrhiza closed down her mind lest she share thoughts with her tree. She concentrated on the blessings to the All Mother and Huntress, turning her mind from sky to soil, from flight to the solidity of roots.

  And in the middle of her prayer, Arrhiza fell out into spring, as su
rprised as if she were still young. She tumbled against one of the birch, her nearest neighbor, Phyla of the white face. Their legs touched, their hands brushing one another’s thighs.

  Arrhiza turned toward Phyla. “Spring comes late,” she sighed, her breath caressing Phyla’s budlike ear.

  Phyla rolled away from her, pouting. “You make Spring Greeting sound like a complaint. It is the same every year.” She sat up with her back to Arrhiza and stretched her arms. Her hands were outlined against the evening sky, the second and third fingers slotted together like a leaf. Then she turned slowly towards Arrhiza, her woodsgreen eyes unfocused. In the soft, filtered light her body gleamed whitely and the darker patches were mottled beauty marks on her breasts and sides. She was up to her feet in a single fluid movement and into the Dance.

  Arrhiza watched, still full length on the ground, as one after another the dryads and meliades rose and stepped into position, circling, touching, embracing, moving apart. The cleft of their legs flashed pale signals around the glade.

  Rooted to their trees, the hamadryads could only lean out into the Dance. They swayed to the lascivious pipings of spring. Their silver-green hair, thick as vines, eddied around their bodies like water.

  Arrhiza watched it all but still did not move. How long she had waited for this moment, the whole of the deep winter, and yet she did not move. What she wanted was more than this, this entering into the Dance on command. She wanted to touch, to walk, to run, even to dance when she alone desired it. But then her blood was singing, her body pulsating; her limbs stretched upward answering the call. She was drawn towards the others and, even without willing it, Arrhiza was into the Dance.

  Silver and green, green and gold, the grove was a smear of color and wind as she whirled around and around with her sisters. Who was touched and who the toucher; whose arm, whose thigh was pressed in the Dance, it did not matter. The Dance was all. Drops of perspiration, sticky as sap, bedewed their backs and ran slow rivulets to the ground. The Dance was the glade, was the grove. There was no stopping, no starting, for a circle has no beginning or end.