~ In The Shade Of The Sol ~
The waves of tempest tossed
Brings a pattern of sensitivity
Each passing day –
The tempest now serene
After the ceremonial initiation, She was taken away, Matilda leading the way, back into the darkness, and Gwion had, once again, taken the lead, and escorted Him into the ante-chamber, the Chamber of The Chalice, as it was called.
He was full of questions, but Gwion was reticent, and said nothing until they were all outside. “You have many answers,” he said, “but even more questions; you are impatient, driven by your fire, learn to relax, hang on to a thing, but keep your grip ever-so loosely upon what you desire. If it is a woman, let her come to you, after the fire has been revealed, for if that spirit truly desires, respects, and is aware of you, their intentions will be known – if not, all too many shadows remain, so their mind is not truly their own – fire and water must, at the outset, understand each others properties. You, my son, are open, and a open soul, must you abide. If the darkness makes the other withhold the sun, then the machinations are many, and the truth of intentions are cloudy and irresolute; the path is to open the door to mutual understanding and communication.”
Gwion, had been badgered by Him, for the last thirty minutes, and what had started the introspection and questions, was the fact that She had not informed Him of her actual depth and reasoning behind the lack of information regarding the initiation, as well as many other aspects of her life; true it was, that they had admitted their intentions and interest in each other, and He had spoken, in truth, of his love for this ofttimes complicated – not complicated, but compartmentalized life, holding each aspect of her life in a distinct and unrelated fashion, one from the other – this, no doubt, stemmed from her present domestic relationship, and since her heart had been cloistered in so many ways, had moved into her everyday life, and the appearance of disinterest (but this was only confusion and overabundance of thought) was palpable at times.
Gwion continued to lead the men down the path to the campsite, and he also, if not haltingly (for he was an old man, and he leaned heavily on his staff), continued to answer some of His questions:
“It has been said, my son, that it is the Man who, through the powers of his action, that driving force and fire, related to him, is that which makes History, and to Woman is ascribed the value, perhaps even the absolute essence of History, in fact, it is believed by some, that Woman is History. If this be so, then, most assuredly, this is a strange thing to consider, for the duality of existence is clear to me, but this aspect of the divine is enigmatic, for in all living things we can sense a celestial flowing of personality, yet it is obvious that it is individuals, those recipients who, as each case warrants, are necessary to preserve this flowing. This is the ‘history’ which is, characteristically, of the male force and power – the manifestations of the mundane, of political intrigue, social direction (in the external world), it is of this time, and this place. If this be true, also, even in the passing ages, one may see this in the great rising and falling of the great Cultures, and this tension survives to this day.
To Woman, then, even to the divine, is the essential quality of the eternal, of the maternal, Aye!, of Motherhood, and this tells me that she is organic yet, also, cultureless, for she extends the race, and this is ever her duty and obligation, which never alters, only individuals may deny or circumvent this sequence of generation.
In the race of your ancestors, it has been time-honoured to see woman in relation to man in this respect only, and that is the war-bond of childbearing, as this essence, this legacy, is a battle for existence, its field of battle fixed, intense, and unforgiving, no matter the healing arts of our people; if she succumbs to this battle, and dies thereof, she was interred with the same rituals and rites of our greatest Heroes – thus, in accordance with all struggle, is Woman so honoured. Outside of this drama, however, the feminine is of her own power, and the greatest of these know their power and, like men, are duty-bound to embrace, and construct those labours, which will best suit the extension and honour of those to whom she belongs, plant-like, and to support and direct, when she can, to the greater good of her people and tribe.
In some quarters, many feel that this is an essential battle, a necessary conflict between Her and Him. It is true, by degree, that the male and female, Aye!, even these two kinds of history are, in fact, fighting for power, for woman is strong, and belongs to what she is, and considers the man, indeed, the Sons in relation to herself and the natural role she has been allotted; the primal male, his fire seems, at the outset, to present a contradiction – for he is wholly a Man, also, even as Woman belongs to herself, and this she sees as a violence upon which she considers the most intrinsic, and holy part of her – that is, of the sacredness of extension and legacy, and to those things that would betray the safety of her man and sons, she would secretly lay in wait and destroy that, which is her nemesis, her opposite, for her songs are of love and extension – but there are, also, love-lyrics and war-lyrics, love-dances and weapon-dances – both exist because both exist.”
He was getting tired, and he did not understand completely what Gwion was saying, and spoke with a little hesitation in his voice, “Then you are saying that man and woman can never be One, and if this be the case, you point to endless conflict, not love and unity; for a man can, and does, mark his own way yet, when the battle is done, or cannot be extended will, of need and devotion, be at peace, and put his power and honour into the battle of extension with his beloved and, this, is heroism in and of itself – to cede a portion of himself to the one he loves and maintain her powers of the hearth and home – and to maintain this power, Man will battle and die, as is the way of nature, but not because he fails to test his mettle, but because of it.” Gwion, nodded his head in assent, and was intrigued at His moral attitude, and the balance he carried in his spirit, but he had but one more thing to say, “Woman ever seeks to draw her man away from his kind of history, and to draw him into herself, to hearth and home, yet fails to understand the value, the external value, of what man does, instinctually when, he, the sword-wielder, takes to battle those forces who would deny her that very hearth, and home, with which she depends and nurtures; such is the eternal conflict.”