The first time She comes to me, I don’t recognise Her. I see a crow. I’ve never seen one here before. The crow in that place, at that moment, piques my curiosity, and I think, “I’ll come back later.”
I do come back later.
The crow is there waiting. It leads me deeper into a wood of late Autumn birch, leaves a gold and brown carpet on the forest floor. The crow lands on a naked branch above me. It looks down on me, and suddenly transforms.
The crow is not a crow.
She takes me to a cave. It’s empty there, but for us, cool, dark.
She tells me to sing. I sing and there is a merging of time, we are where we are in the dark, and we are in the cave with many women singing, and fire in the darkness.
When it is done, we ascend, and she asks me the first time, “Will you serve?”
I don’t want to answer. Quite honestly, I am afraid. I just want to get away.
I snap out of the journey space into the ordinary reality of my bedroom, thinking to escape.
She’s there, with me. “Will you serve?” This time louder, more insistent.
I don’t want to answer. What answer could I possibly give? I know who She is. I don’t know why She is there, or what She wants with me.
“Will you serve?”
With the force of the question, it’s clear there must be a response. I am silent, and shaking. I don’t want to answer.
And then She says, “You named your daughter for me.” These words echo in my mind. I know that this is true, though when I named my daughter, I did not know that this is what I was doing.
“You named your daughter for Me,”
The resonance of these words hits me like a code unlocking memory, falling back back back deep into time, calling to life pieces of me that She knows, that I have forgotten, an unraveling.
She asks once more, commanding, “Will you serve?”
And I, I find myself answering, speaking from a place beyond who I am in that moment, speaking words that come from me but from a place beyond thought, affirming ancient vows that I have surely made before and even more surely will make again, a gift of memory and awakening.
Anon (c) May 2017