A Bride Of The Stars

When I was a child, I spent a lot of time in the woods and bluffs in central Wisconsin. There was something, as a child, palpably magical about that area… a feeling born, perhaps, out of my awe for the indigenous cultures of the region. There was still a lot of wilderness out in that part of the state, then, and I believe there is a power in the unsettled land, a sort of natural magic that gets tamped down or suffocated wherever our mystically sterile civilization lays down its sewers and roads and power lines. In the middle of the woodlands, though, there was an energy not easily described, but simple to experience. It was an energy that filled your bones and muscles, lifted you above animal instinct and deposited you somewhere else entirely, a full step above the dirty ground we wander on for most of our lives. It was a realm of spirit, of nature beyond biology. I couldn’t put any of this into words, back then… but I knew it was different than where I came from. I knew that, while I was out amongst the wooded frontier, I was basically living in another world entirely.

I had my own small tent when we camped out, and it was a frightening and freeing experience, being unbound in the dark, wild nights. While my parents slept some distance away, I found myself freakishly attuned with the night, my senses heightened, my brain far more aware of my surroundings than I was necessarily comfortable with. I was listening for every cricket hiccup, every owl shriek, every twig snapping in our vicinity. I was on edge in a primal way, on guard, protecting something spiritually valuable from cruel and hungry flesh and blood. In this way, I would eventually fall into an approximation of sleep, a hypnosis or trance that rendered my five senses active and watchful even as an essential part of me drifted, no longer incarcerated in that base, bodily prison. Again, I didn’t know this at the time… but in retrospect, it’s clear that my soul walked free in those mystical woods. And when I would rise in the daytime, my arms and legs and lungs would be absolutely exhausted, but I would still feel refreshed in an entirely different manner. Even as the dark circles would form under my eyes, and I would be unable to stifle chest racking yawns, I would feel more alert, more cognizant, more alive than I ever felt after sleeping in my bed at home.

My travels, at night, were understandably remembered as dreams. They were, I suppose, a form of dream… the experiences I had, there, were not “real.” They never truly occurred in any physical way. And yet they happened, and I remembered them… in that way, those travels were no different than any other dream. But there was a much stronger clarity to them, a vividness that I do not come close to replicating in my normal dreaming. There was something intangible about them that, now, leads me to believe that these dreams were not manufactured by own imagination, but were, instead, moments that I lived. That delineation, I suppose, is moot. Either way, I have memories of my soul walks, and that’s all that matters.

By far, the most memorable of these events occurred when I was nine.

We had spent most of the day hiking through grassy, blunted hills under a gorgeous red rocky bluff. Eventually, we came to a river, a deep hewn ribbon of clear water that was wide and shallow and full of migrating schools of blackish fish. A golden eagle periodically dove into the water and retrieved one of the dark fish in its talons, its meal’s scales suddenly bursting with color and sparkle in the midday sunlight. There were, according to our guidebook, numerous Indian mounds nearby, and I would’ve sworn there was something almost holy about that place. It felt like a convergence of the magic I described earlier… as if it somehow pooled up and stagnated right there at the riverside. I felt strange being there, as if I were a trespasser or an interloper… as if I didn’t belong at all. But there was nothing unfriendly or unwelcoming about it. It was more, I suppose, that I was unworthy of being there. It felt, maybe, like I hadn’t earned the right to be in that sort of sanctuary. My parents may have felt the same way. None of us spoke for a long time. It wasn’t awkward or unpleasant… it was more reverential. I think my folks had similar experiences in these places, but we never talked about it. I’m sure we all felt a little bit crazy for feeling it.

We returned to our campsite, made dinner over the fire and watched as the dusk caressed the sky to sleep. There is a different sort of completeness to the day when you don’t have artificial light to eat into the nighttime. It feels as if living through the twilight is a sort of accomplishment, a notch to mark off or a box to check on your list of goals. The rhythm of night and day, in the wilderness, is more noticeable and more real than it is where I live. Our lives, in cities and towns, blur the definitions of the world in motion. We exert our control over darkness instead of letting it hold sway over us. And while it may make us feel as if we have a dominion over nature, there’s a different sort of satisfaction to be had by succumbing to the night and laying down to sleep when the fire burns out. Relinquishing that false authority we try to grab, here, has amazing effects. I may not have known, then, why it felt so good to sleep in the pitch black of those woods… but my guess, now, is that by falling back into our rightful place, into our role as subservient to the planet, we gain a measure of security and comfort that we lose when desperately clinging to power that isn’t ours. The anxiety that comes from feeling alone in a world of billions is all but erased when you remember you’re not isolated from the world in any way.

That night, again, my body stayed wide awake while my spirit fled.

And where I wandered, that night, was to the sanctuary at the riverside. I remember feeling called there, as if I heard someone summoning me to the grassy banks of the shallow water. It was serene, there, under the moonlight. Everything was white and deep blue, all washed in the color pallet of dreaming. My heart soared just being allowed there, again, and I sat amidst a thatch of cattails and reeds and dipped my bare, spirituous feet in the cold river.
I don’t know how long I sat there, breathing in the air of trees and flowers and rushes. It felt like mere minutes, but the moon’s movement overhead contradicted that assumption. Eventually I was joined by a chalk white man wearing the elaborate and beautiful costume of a medicine man. He sat next to me on the bank of the river, aged and gouged with kindly wrinkles. He was radiant and warm, and I was happy to see him, even without knowing who he was. He had a strong, weathered face, but he smiled with such sincerity that I had no choice but to feel at ease. He had a long staff, decorated with beads and feathers and tiny leather pouches, and he dipped it into the river water, rippling the reflection of the moon.

He spoke, then, in a language that seemed older than time, and although I shouldn’t have understood a word of it, it made perfect sense to me.

The shaman said, joyfully, that he had been called to that place, that night, to perform a wedding. He shook his staff as he spoke, letting loose a very primitive sounding rattle that reverberated through the river valley and was echoed in the throats of owls and raccoons and other nocturnal creatures. Soon, many of those animals had gathered themselves by the river, as guests, the shaman said, smiling, of the bride.

I asked, then, bolstered by the kind demeanor of the man, where the bride was.
And the old man looked at me with eyes darker than the sky and pointed upward. The Stars, he told me, were to be wed tonight.

And who is the groom, then, I wondered.

The old man closed his dark eyes and laughed. He told me that the groom had not shown himself, but would. He said that many suitors had been rivals for such an amazing lover, but only one would have the honor of making the Stars his bride. Those suitors, he told me, would arrive soon, and I, apparently, was there to greet them all.

It wasn’t long before the shaman's words proved true. A great bear, tall, regal and imposing and possessed of slick, black fur, made his way from the woods to the opposite side of the river.

“I am Bear,” he stated plainly, and in a strong and fearsome voice. “I have come to wed the Stars.”

From out of the tall grasses of the fields came bounding a dappled, brown stag. He stood next to Bear on the riverside, his coat and impressive rack of antlers gleaming in the moonlight.

“I am Deer,” the stag said, proud and arrogant in his beauty. “I have come to wed the Stars.”

Slinking from the rushes came a smaller figure, a gorgeous red fox with a thick tail and a sly, angled face. He stood between Bear and Deer, grinning with a cunning that sent a shiver down my vaporous spine.

“I am Fox,” he stated. “I have come to wed the Stars.”

Rising from the ground came a small whirl of bellowing breeze, strong enough to topple some of the long grasses and bend the stems of the wildflowers across the river. From it appeared a noble and cool looking warrior, blue and vaporous and impressive in his stature.

“I am Wind,” the man said with a ringing fury in his words. “I have come to wed the Stars.”

And finally, amassing like fog on the bank of the water, gray swirls of ether came together, clinging and heavy, eventually drizzling into the form of a young man, thin and sallow, and appearing very tired. He was far less than the other suitors in every respect. He carried himself with little power or confidence, and he certainly didn’t strike as startling of a figure as the great Bear or the beautiful Deer or the intelligent Fox or the stately Wind.

“I am Cloud,” he said, almost sadly. “I have come to wed the Stars.”

The shaman looked at the gathered suitors with a critical eye. "Only one among you," he said in his ancient language, "is worthy to make a bride of the Stars. Only one among you shall have such an honor to live with her in the sky." The old man punctuated his declaration with a rattle of his staff, and stretched his arms out toward the light spackled heavens. He stayed incredibly still for a moment, his beaten face beaming with a sort of barely contained joy. He was listening to something that none of the rest of us there seemed to hear. "The Stars," the old man said, finally, "demands a tribute of you! What would you offer for her hand in marriage?"

Bear spoke first. "I can offer my strength, dear Stars," Bear said loudly. "I am the strongest creature in the forest, bigger and bolder and braver than anything."

The shaman listened again. He shook his head, then. "The Stars has no need of a mate with strength," he said. "She is strong enough on her own. The Stars rejects you, Bear. I am sorry."

And Bear hung his great head low and sulked off back into the forest.

"And you, Deer?" the shaman asked. "What do you offer the Stars?"

Deer lifted his majestic head up with a definite arrogance. "I can offer my beauty, dear Stars," Deer said proudly. "You will be given the gift of my graceful form."

The shaman listened to the Stars and shook his head. "The Stars has no need of a mate with beauty," he said. "She is beautiful enough on her own. The Stars rejects you, too, Deer. I am sorry."

Deer's brown eyes filled with tears and it bounded away, wounded and sad.

"And you, Fox?" the shaman asked. "What do you offer the Stars?"

Fox grinned slyly. "I can offer my intellect, dear Stars," Fox said. "I am the smartest creature there is, full of cunning and wit."

The shaman listened to the Stars again and shook his head. "The Stars has no need of a mate with intellect," he said. "She is cunning enough on her own. The Stars rejects you, friend Fox. I am sorry."

Fox scowled, angrily, and slunk into the woods, offended.

"And what of you, Wind?" the shaman asked. "What do you offer the Stars?"

Wind took a deep breath. "I can offer my power, dear Stars," Wind said. "I am the most powerful thing there is, able to bend trees to will and bring up waves from the deepest lakes and rivers."
The shaman frowned. "The Stars has no need of a mate with power," he said. "She is powerful enough on her own. I am sorry, Wind. The Stars rejects you."

The Wind was crestfallen. He moped and wandered back into the woods.

"So it is up to you, Cloud. What do you have to offer the Stars?"

Cloud looked up the Stars with his big, wet eyes and said, meekly, "Privacy is all I have to offer you, dear Stars."

The shaman looked intrigued. "Privacy?"

Cloud smiled. "When the Stars are shy, I can be there to cover her. When she is modest, I can hide her from the prying eyes of all you, here, below her. I can blanket her, keep her safe from your watchful gazes. And when she is proud and boisterous in her beauty, I can step away and I can let you all bask in her twinkling glow. When The Stars wants to be seen, I can open myself up like some great curtain, letting her luminescence spill out upon the earth. And when she becomes shy again, I can be there to block her from view. I can offer her privacy. I can offer her control."
The shaman grinned widely, his mouth a locked cavern of yellow stalagmites and crooked stalactites. He was pleased with Cloud's response. Out of all of her impressive suitors, the humble Cloud had the most to offer the strong, and beautiful, and brilliant and powerful Stars.

"You have much to give, friend Cloud," the shaman said, happily. The Stars accepts your hand. She shall be your mate.

Cloud was beaming with happiness. A cheer went up from the gathered animals at the river, and the shaman opened his hands in dutiful benediction. There was a tremendous gladness that settled on the holy place, and I couldn't help but be warmed by it. The old medicine man began to speak his ancient language, but its secrets were hidden from my ears, now. The beautiful, timeless words spilled from his papery lips and filled the night air with a resonant sound that blurred into a droning, cicada-buzz chant. Soon all the creatures joined in and the scene was staggering in its alien beauty. There was a rattle in the old man's hands, and a shaker of beads that signaled the union of Cloud and the Stars. And when it had commenced, and when the gentle cacophony of the shaman's chants were finally complete, Cloud ascended from the river up into the sky to take the hand of his new bride. Another cheer burst forth from the throng of animals, and they returned, then, to their woodland homes.

The shaman smiled at me, then, and thanked me for my attendance, once again speaking a tongue I knew. He had a tear of joy running down his battered, leathery cheek. He put his spindly arms around me, and hugged me tight. I didn't feel I had much choice but to hug him back.

He gave me one final nod and then made his way back into the wilderness, leaving me alone, ghostly and content at the sanctuary river. I looked up into the sky and saw Cloud joyfully embracing his new love.

My body, then, awoke and my spirit was ripped from that place and was plunked, unceremoniously, back into my squishy, fleshy form. And I struggled, then, as the sun approached on the eastern horizon, to make myself believe I had really been there and that it hadn't been some mental fabrication. In the end, of course, it didn't matter. Daylight took up its reign in the sky, and The Stars were sent away for the time being, while Cloud remained behind, like a gentleman, protecting his new bride as she made her exit. And I watched, and I thrilled for them, happy in their happiness, smiling in their completeness. I spent the days that followed whistling the wedding chants I'd heard in my dreams and wondering who'd make a husband, someday, of the Wind.

This Place Is Magic

There is a gentle sway to Lyra's hips as music plays from some unseen source. It should confuse her, but it barely registers as strange. It is an eerie melody, like a warbling saw ebbing and flowing from the treetops, filling the swirling, blue fog surrounding her. She moves to it instinctively, letting its unearthly hum puppeteer her. She should find this all very odd, but instead she feels nothing but a rare peace. It barely registers that she is being watched by spectral eyes.

The eyes hang there in the mists, azure and glowing, and they blink out a code that Lyra can somehow decipher. This, too, should confuse the girl, but it doesn't. She just accepts it, and reads what the eyes, disembodied and alight, spell out for her.

"This is a special place, girl," the eyes blink to her. "This place is magic."

Lyra knows that. Even without the supernatural trappings, without the ghostly music and whispering fog and disembodied eyes, Lyra could tell that there was something special about this little grove of birch and beech trees. It had always called out to her, but in a sideways fashion... in a dark manner that had always vaguely frightened her as a child.

She would walk a path nearby, many nights, flashlight in hand and chills running the length of her back. She was afraid, so much, when she was young. The moonlight cast dire shadows out along the leaf-strewn ground and those shadows danced in ways that froze up her heart and instilled her with quick-breath panic that took hours to burn away. The whole of the woods had left her terrified, and she hated that she had to walk that dirt road alone. Owls would scream out their warning cries, various things would skitter through the fallen leaves... even the trees would bend and cackle as she made her way past them. It was always Halloween in that forest, always sinister and foreboding. But it was real. It was nature that frightened her. The fear of a wildcat in the underbrush or a rabid raccoon lurking behind a twisted stump or sandy knoll made each trek through the trees a miniature nightmare. As she walked that dark path, sometimes not even lit by the moon, she felt like prey. It was overly dramatic, to be sure, but also founded and valid. To the things that made their home in the forest, she was an easy target.

But there was something more. Beyond the rational fears that accompanied her, there was one particular spot that loomed larger and more horribly in her anxiety. It was a small thatch of trees that seemed abnormal, although she could never pinpoint the reason. It was different, though, palpably so, and she didn't want anything to do with it. It lay, at least, a bit off the path, but it was still within sight and she would hurry her pace just to cross it quickly and leave it behind as soon as was possible. She heard whispers from it, but not in any way that she would admit to. It called out to her, telling her just how out of the ordinary it was. And she didn't like it. She didn't like what she felt spilling from it, radiating out from it like gnarled roots veined from the center of the place in all directions.

It wasn't long before things had changed, and there was no reason to traverse the path anymore. Lyra moved far away from the woods, the dirt road and the eerie grove of trees that gave her such discomfort. She ended her youth in a place where grass was replaced by concrete and trees were torn down to make way for steel and glass. There was no worry of survival in that place. Everything was easy and brightly lit. Everything was stripped of its hardship and coated in glossy paint and chrome. There was nothing to run from on the sidewalk, no midnight stalking beasts to hunt her down. She became accustomed to the suburbs and she forgot about the thatch of trees that inordinately worried her as a child.

Nostalgia is powerful, though, and Lyra found herself, many years later, desiring to revisit a childhood spent in a different sort of place. She remembered the way there better than she thought she would, and on a vacation from her world, she reentered the forest that she walked through as a little girl.

The path was still there and so were the feelings of dread. It was a backwards comfort, but a comfort all the same to know that those lost worries still had a home inside her. It was dark as she crossed the path, looking up at the moonlight shredded by black limbs and fractals of fluttering leaves. She was nervous and elated, moving with catlike precision through the forest as her heart began beating crazily near that enchanted grove of birch and beech trees that had so unnervingly traumatized her as a child.

And then she went into a sort of trance.

Moving from the path, called into the woods, Lyra flitted like a faerie spirit, light on her feet and nearly floating to that strange congregation of trees. What had frightened her before now spoke to her, called to her, lured her in like a siren song. She smiled as it happened. She was surprised by it, surprised by herself and not at all aware of the blue fog that poured in as she entered the grove.

And Lyra is here, amongst those trees, watching blinking, disembodied eyes and realizing just how magic this place really is. The eerie sawblade fanfare sways her and her dark hair blows about in a warm and pleasant breeze. It's all very sedate, very lush and unreal. She feels wonderful, here, as if she'd been waiting to be here for her whole life. Crickets chirp over the wobbling notes of the unseen music. The fog swirls prettily around her. The eyes keep blinking.

"You've been away so long," the eyes blink. "But you've returned to us."

And Lyra knows that this is right. She was of this place. She was born in this thatch of trees and ousted into a world of mundane threat and dull innovation. The circumstances elude her, but the eyes are blinking the truth to her. She wonders, now, at her fear as a child, at the misplaced terror that accompanied this magic spot. It was the fear she felt upon exile, she realizes, the fear of being tossed into that monochromatic world... it was tethered, in her mind, to her birthplace, her magic home. She feels silly, embarrassed... but only a touch. She is too happy at her return to feel much else at all.

"Welcome back," the eyes blink.

Lyra takes off her shoes, then, and lets her feet sink into the soft earth. She feels so alive, so perfect. The unseen music hits a crescendo, and Lyra lifts her lithe arms upward, into the bustling leaves of the birch and beech trees. She lets the leaves touch her palms and an electric trill crackles down her spine, down her thighs, into her ankles and deep into the ground. She is connected. Rooted. Her dark hair grows, a wild thing now alive and moving of its own volition. She smiles and sighs as tendrils of it wrap around her, silken and soft. She builds, for herself, a cocoon from her own slinking hair. She is mummified in it, wholly entombed by herself. And inside, she is still smiling, still sighing. Hair snakes from the base of her, from her bound ankles, and it crawls up the side of a leaning birch. It creeps along a low hanging branch and wraps itself, tight, against the papery bark. With a quick jerk, Lyra is pulled, feet first and upside down, hung from the branch and still swaying to the dying, unseen music. She is nestled, there in her cocoon, purring and content. Her eyes shut and she dips into a serene lulled slumber.

Where she awakens isn't mundane in the least.