For She Was the Great Mother, After All

The wind danced between the ankles of children clad in auld knights armour, silks and satins, hats and swords. Nipping at the calves, biting at the skin, it stung to them with great intensity. Boring into them like that of a grim, that of a ghost, that of a miasma. Plaguing their souls with a weight of unencumbered fear; the dark, creeping in on them. The monster, creeping out from the bed. The water, rising up around their necks. 

The wind danced from the fingertips of women, standing in solidarity, standing in force, standing in might. Their feet dug into the ground, tip to toe. Bodies stood connected, hand in hand, form in form, soul in soul. They chanted sweet, eloquent, pure words of Gaelic: 

Tha sinn a ’gairm ort, màthair dhiathan, thoir dhuinn do neart, thoir dhuinn do chreideamh, oir bheir sinn a-mach thu agus bheir sinn uaill dhut, dè an ionmhas as motha a tha agad, dè as motha a tha thu gad ghràdh. O, ban-dia mòr Danu, màthair, ar màthair. Thoir aire don ghairm againn.

We call upon you, mother of gods, give us your strength, give us your faith, for we shall bring you forth and bring you proud, what it is you most treasure, what it is you most love. Oh, great goddess Danu, mother, our mother. Heed our call.

The sky opened upon beckoning, it heard their call and wished with the utmost to answer. To answer with truth, honesty and hope. It replied in great verse. It coiled around them, brushed against their skin and whispered into their ears. An onlooker would have thought it was fear that painted the face of the coven that stood tall, proud, and with might. But what it was… it was insight, it was understanding, it was knowledge. Rushing into them in force. Her voice as clear as the stars speckled across the night sky. She answered her children, she rejoiced in their love, their hope, their care. She warmed them all with a maternal embrace, taking great notice to any malignant thought, or pain that tarnished her dears’ skin. She chanted: For I, thy mother, my dear children few, with hope, I reside in every single of you. Be it in power or in fear, my strength I give to you. 

For her words were vague and swell and strong, they knew with a great deal what it was she knew. Her words lingered on the tips of their tongues, on the tips of their hopes, on the tips of their brains. 

Their toes dug deep into the soil underfoot, their bodies connected with the current of power, the flow of magic, the wave of hope and joy within the Earth and seized upon its strength to bring forth her image, the mother of all gods. Her image that of a Seelie, tall and slim, pale and pregnant. Wisps of long flowing hair fell unto her breast and child. A face unlike that of beauty today, she was hope and kindness in the body of a mother. Her image that of a Seelie, that of a mother. The women eased at the sight of their mother, of their only hope on the one pure night.

Autumnal rays broke through the ever grey canvas in speckles of gold, bronze, and amber. It painted the skin of the women with metallic love and warmth. They unaccountably thought of their mother, and their mother’s mother, and their mother’s mother’s mother. Her image once divine, now reduced to a mere fog that lingered within the clarity of all. Yet they knew unequivocally that she was there, within each one of them, holding them up and giving them strength. 

The Moon hung low in the sky, the lunar light was cool against their skin and the once metallic warmth that felt so right unto skin…disappeared. For she was no longer there, but in with them. Taking no place as a being but rather in every being. She had heard their call, dug her nails into the root of wrong and found a way, any sort of way, to ease her children’s bad. Regardless of having to sacrifice herself. For she was the great mother, after all.

The women had yet to fully awaken. Yet, even in the dreamlike fog, they knew she was no longer there. A part of the real world was gone. A piece of magic no longer existed beyond the walls of their bodies. They cried with great sorrow to see their mother reduced to them, knowing that ultimately it was in the greater good made little at consolidating the heartfelt loss each woman encapsulated. She spoke, their mother as she did, in a low and enchanting voice. One would have thought it a trap if it were not for the fact she called to no man. She consolidated her children and beckoned them to her will. It was their time to enact her great hope. Their chance rewrite all wrong.

They took their stand, towards the end of All Hallows Eve. Drawing on the power of All Souls Day to have their call heard. They spoke in a low, collected, voice. They left no way for man to tarnish their power, their hope, their voice. Instead, they stood proud and tall. Hand in hand. Form in form. Soul in soul. As one they marched unto man’s door, laying their hats down and faced a great evil that swept their Earth. For man had said: farewell to the help for the sick, farewell to help for the poor, farewell to the help for starving, farewell to the care of the people. They had turned their backs on the very beings that allowed their status, their job, their power. They grumbled and moaned at the plight of the people, the real people of the world: for they are no more than a flea on my dear dog's coat. 

Mother Danu found that every fibre in each one of her daughter's beings flared with the might and anger of injustice. She cried out to her children, she drew them in close and with one final breath she took her own soul and with it all the men and women who stole the future from the people. With it, she gave back to her children. She gave them hope, she gave them love, she gave them a future, she gave them all of her and more.

For she was the great mother, after all.