heavens. Tonight was the night of Kela’s blood. The night
of purification. Tomorrow was the start of everything new.
For the bride it would be entering into her husband’s bed, for others it would be the last week before greeting Kela. The
seasons were changing. Already the wind was warmer, the sun shone longer. A new beginning could be seen everywhere in the
land.
She felt the fire’s warmth on her skin, heating her front, making her back feel colder. Tonight, for some reason, she felt
unfamiliar with herself. Her body seemed excruciatingly sensitive—she felt every frail hair on her body, every spot of skin.
She burned for something, an indefinable lust. Sibylla rubbed her face. Tonight was about joy and ecstasy, not for thought
and reason.
Carefully she chewed a laurel leaf, throwing her head back as she felt the night embrace her. She turned her back to the fire,
knowing her body was limned with light. Raising her voice, she began to sing, moving her body slowly, praising Kela’s wisdom
for forming woman. The steps that had once come thoughtlessly seemed slow and awkward tonight, and her mind felt uneasy within
itself.
I’m definitely going to take dance lessons next chance I get
, she heard her mind say.
Others joined in. Naked women: old, young, pregnant, withered. With wine in their veins and joy in their souls they sought
a spiritual freedom in dance. More women came from the shadows, more voices joined, each singing her own song, the resulting
dissonance a dimension of beauty unquestioned and accepted.
Slowly they moved around the fire, passing the wineskin, reveling in the sensations. The dance grew faster, moving in a tighter
circle, their fluid movements becoming one. Sibylla felt an arm around her waist and gripped the shoulders of the woman next
to her as they moved in a flurry of sweat and scent, celebrating the mystery of themselves.
Closest to the fire the young bride danced alone, learning her body, teaching herself to recognize the sensuality within her.
Her elders watched as she practiced a seduction of her new husband. Amid laughter and suggestive comments, the matrons demonstrated
alluring looks and sensuous gestures. Sibylla laughed, thriving on the feeling of community, the sense of belonging. Yet she
was confused. She had danced like this almost every moon of her life. Why did it feel so sacred tonight? Why did it seem so
rare?
The circle grew slower as the bride’s dancing grew more frenzied. As she was approaching completion, her mother and grandmother
stepped forward, soothing her, stopping her. Now she would have no fear of marriage, no terror of what the night would bring.
Indeed, it would be a feat to keep her from rushing the young groom! She had learned how to conjure passion, a sacred gift.
The hills were darkly gray and the moon small when the group fell asleep on the ground. Sibylla huddled beside the dying fire,
staring up at the mass of stars, aching. Something significant and internal was missing. She hugged herself in the night,
wondering for what or whom she grieved.
“Mistress?”
An old woman stood above her. Age had not been kind or gracious to her body or face, but her eyes were soft in the predawn
darkness. “You are lost,” the woman said, awkwardly sitting down beside Sibylla. Her words touched the oracle, and Sibylla
began to weep. Old arms wrapped a cloak around her and pulled her close, rocking her gently, speaking nonsensical words of
comfort. Sibylla cried all the harder. She hadn’t felt the nurturing love of another woman in so long.
It was almost like having Mimi again
, her mind said. Before Sibylla could ask who Mimi was, a flood of sorrow submerged her and she grieved in a grandmother’s
arms.
AZTLAN
D ION BLINKED, FOCUSING ON THE RING OF WOMEN . It had grown very dark; the sun would soon rise. Still they were dancing and laughing, wine and herbs in their veins. They
were his cousins, his
of purification. Tomorrow was the start of everything new.
For the bride it would be entering into her husband’s bed, for others it would be the last week before greeting Kela. The
seasons were changing. Already the wind was warmer, the sun shone longer. A new beginning could be seen everywhere in the
land.
She felt the fire’s warmth on her skin, heating her front, making her back feel colder. Tonight, for some reason, she felt
unfamiliar with herself. Her body seemed excruciatingly sensitive—she felt every frail hair on her body, every spot of skin.
She burned for something, an indefinable lust. Sibylla rubbed her face. Tonight was about joy and ecstasy, not for thought
and reason.
Carefully she chewed a laurel leaf, throwing her head back as she felt the night embrace her. She turned her back to the fire,
knowing her body was limned with light. Raising her voice, she began to sing, moving her body slowly, praising Kela’s wisdom
for forming woman. The steps that had once come thoughtlessly seemed slow and awkward tonight, and her mind felt uneasy within
itself.
I’m definitely going to take dance lessons next chance I get
, she heard her mind say.
Others joined in. Naked women: old, young, pregnant, withered. With wine in their veins and joy in their souls they sought
a spiritual freedom in dance. More women came from the shadows, more voices joined, each singing her own song, the resulting
dissonance a dimension of beauty unquestioned and accepted.
Slowly they moved around the fire, passing the wineskin, reveling in the sensations. The dance grew faster, moving in a tighter
circle, their fluid movements becoming one. Sibylla felt an arm around her waist and gripped the shoulders of the woman next
to her as they moved in a flurry of sweat and scent, celebrating the mystery of themselves.
Closest to the fire the young bride danced alone, learning her body, teaching herself to recognize the sensuality within her.
Her elders watched as she practiced a seduction of her new husband. Amid laughter and suggestive comments, the matrons demonstrated
alluring looks and sensuous gestures. Sibylla laughed, thriving on the feeling of community, the sense of belonging. Yet she
was confused. She had danced like this almost every moon of her life. Why did it feel so sacred tonight? Why did it seem so
rare?
The circle grew slower as the bride’s dancing grew more frenzied. As she was approaching completion, her mother and grandmother
stepped forward, soothing her, stopping her. Now she would have no fear of marriage, no terror of what the night would bring.
Indeed, it would be a feat to keep her from rushing the young groom! She had learned how to conjure passion, a sacred gift.
The hills were darkly gray and the moon small when the group fell asleep on the ground. Sibylla huddled beside the dying fire,
staring up at the mass of stars, aching. Something significant and internal was missing. She hugged herself in the night,
wondering for what or whom she grieved.
“Mistress?”
An old woman stood above her. Age had not been kind or gracious to her body or face, but her eyes were soft in the predawn
darkness. “You are lost,” the woman said, awkwardly sitting down beside Sibylla. Her words touched the oracle, and Sibylla
began to weep. Old arms wrapped a cloak around her and pulled her close, rocking her gently, speaking nonsensical words of
comfort. Sibylla cried all the harder. She hadn’t felt the nurturing love of another woman in so long.
It was almost like having Mimi again
, her mind said. Before Sibylla could ask who Mimi was, a flood of sorrow submerged her and she grieved in a grandmother’s
arms.
AZTLAN
D ION BLINKED, FOCUSING ON THE RING OF WOMEN . It had grown very dark; the sun would soon rise. Still they were dancing and laughing, wine and herbs in their veins. They
were his cousins, his
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