These are our longest nights, Wild Woman, and the need for the same medicine our ancestors craved runs bone-deep. It is the medicine of perpetual hope we must drink now, and I have some for you. Light a fire and brew yourself some nettle tea to feed your blood. Wrap your warmest blanket around your soft body, and let me tell you of the three wise Witches.
. . .
Spurred on wholly by divined prophecy, these hooded women were singular in their task to find Her. The howl-sounds of the anguished Creatrix in labor had called them Northward from three directions, but their paths had come together now at the eleventh hour when the wounded world hung in the balance, when our billions were threatened by persistent but ailing ego-madness and our planet was barely breathing; now more than ever, we needed these holy midwives to succeed. They knew, as their breath fogged in the cold and their bones ached for warmth, they knew the weight of their work.
Walking in silence, their lips too cracked and frozen to speak, the Witch-Midwives recalled the visions that had led them here to this snow-capped mountain on this Solstice night. The full-breasted, wide hipped Maiden had ventured far from the South, having dreamt of the majesty about to be born. She had woke in a cold sweat, heart-drum pounding in a relentless panic, and she left the safety of her lover’s arms that night, bringing the gifts of sensual liberation, nature’s communion, and deep feeling. She quickened her pace now to catch the ice-cold hand of the Mother.
She had come from the spiritually fertile East, this soft-bellied and sure-voiced Mother, and she had nearly shattered her ritual burning bowl when she saw the horrific scene through her third-eye; the wailing woman in agony, the makeshift bed soaked in sweat and blood, and the slow-to-crown babe caught in the birth canal. She had left her altar where it stood and taken to the road, bearing the gifts of wild will, fierce compassion, and her-story. The Mother squeezed the troubled Maiden’s hand to offer some comfort, but, truth be told, she was shivering with pure fear, too. What if they were too late? What if they had journeyed these longest nights only to find a corpse?
The oldest among them heard her sisters’ anxious breath and turned back, holding out her paper-skinned hand to the Mother and remembering the sound of Her voice. This Crone, this ancient, ethereal, nearly fleshless woman who had birthed countless innocents into being during her lifetime, had never felt such a sense of urgency. Never before had she heard a woman in labor scream as She was screaming, and the Old One had left her sanctuary in the West without a second thought. She brought with her the gifts of night-vision, intuition, and spiritual autonomy, and she would not go home until those gifts were delivered.
They were so close, these three wise midwives, but they had not heard the Creatrix wail in hours. Still, the moon was maternal overhead and the North Star promised their direction was true. They pressed on and up, climbing the mountain as the snow began to fall. They held each other’s hands just so, a forgotten Triple Goddess mudra, and whisper-prayed the verses of the holy feminine.
Gasping in unison, the three wise ones heard Her again, calling out not in pain but in the most dire need, and they ran like she-wolves to a cub in peril. They had no plans, for they did not know what scene they would find, but each of them harbored such an intense sense of purpose, as if the whole of their lives had been lived only to bring them here to this mountain on this Solstice night. They were the feminine embodied, this holy trinity. They were the spiral dance of all-things-She, and they were rushing to birth the most sacred age we have ever known into being.
The Creatrix lay on a birthing bed made of moss when they found Her, clutching her contracting belly and groaning in complete, primal surrender. In a shallow den, she was, the walls painted with five-pointed symbols of protection and a smoldering, dying fire at her side. The smell of iron was thick in the small space, and the Crone rushed to see if they had come too late.
“We are here,” the Old One whispered. “We will not leave you.”
The two younger midwives rushed to gather snow for boiling and to reignite the fire just as dozens of wolves arrived at the cave entrance to stand guard. The Creatrix let loose a guttural moan and the beasts joined Her in solidarity, for their world was as stake as well. The labor seemed endless, but the wolves stood their ground for the duration of the longest night as the wise midwives worked tirelessly. The Maiden and the Mother held their exhausted patient while She cried out for death, and the Crone massaged the womb and whispered blessings in an ancient language.
They prayed to every deity they knew, begging for some blessed, divine intervention to come to their aid, and, in the quiet moments, they asked the anguished Creatrix to tell them her story. She had known no material blessings in her lifetime, the wise midwives learned, and she thought herself abandoned and alone. Indeed she was virgin in that she was whole unto herself, but she bore the same scars marking the collective feminine skin.
“This birth is your sacred work now, my love,” the Crone affirmed. “But it will not always be so. You are destined for a greatness well beyond your role as a Mother, if you will it.”
A wolf’s howl heralded the first pink glow of dawn at that moment, and the Creatrix moaned with purposed pain. The midwives shared a knowing glance, and all four women knew the time had come. Her face twisted with determination, the Creatrix harvested all the strength she had gathered from countless woundings and enduring passions. She pushed. She pushed as if her womb were a medium for the coming world’s cosmic unfolding. She pushed as if the whole of humanity depended on this single act, and the ghost of every woman who had ever been shunned and shamed for not being a man stood at her side.
The wolves howled and the sky grew brighter, with the babe crowning just as the majestic, glowing crescent peaked over the horizon. Angels descended from the ethereal place, and every form of oppression was dragged from the shadows and into the light. The bodies of those who had lost their lives so that others may feel powerful clawed their way up from their cold graves, and the sun rose higher.
The Creatrix wailed one last time, and every woman on Earth heard Her call and stopped their work. The newborn, genderless Child of Light emerged just as the Winter sun lifted above the horizon, lighting the snow as if the land outside the den were covered with small, diamond souls. She lay breathless, and the Maiden nested the babe on the tired Creatrix’ bare-breasted heart as the Crone prepared a warm solve at the fire. The Mother midwife stepped outside the den for the first time in hours, stroking a sleeping wolf with a bloody hand and crushing her eyes shut against the morning’s brilliance.
“This is the holy dawn,” she whispered. “Today, we rest. Tomorrow, we rise.”
. . .
Sleep now, my wild Sister. Drift off at the fire’s side, and dream of new beginnings, undying hope, and wolf-women. Dream of the Witch rising. Know yourself as the savior, and keep an inner sanctum for these visions safe within your red, raw soul.
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