Posted in:   From the Tale
An overwhelming longing floods through me as I step from the darkness into the light of Hecate’s realm, like a lost traveler who has finally found her way home.
In the middle of the hearth-fire circle, bent over and absorbed in Her task, Hecate stirs a steaming cauldron that hangs suspended over the crackling, hissing flames. Clack, clack, clack, the scarred wood of Her staff strikes the blackened iron pot, as She mutters quietly under Her breath.
She straightens up and pushes back unruly strands of silver hair from Her unblemished brow. Her night-sky black cloak shimmers as She moves, as if it’s been dusted with starlight. She seems ageless, or perhaps all ages at once, as Her face shifts form through the veil of wood smoke — sometimes a smooth-browed maiden, sometimes the rounded flesh of a mother, and sometimes the wrinkled folds of an ancient.
With a dancer’s grace, Hecate turns and takes each of us in with Her penetrating, amethyst eyes. A touch of mischief plays at the corner of Her mouth, softening, somewhat, the intensity of Her scrutiny. I stand absolutely still, keeping eye contact, but not daring to say a word. I feel Her awareness peeling away my outer layers, penetrating my sweating skin, and cutting through to my very core. No personal defect, secret shame or hungry longing goes unheeded, nor any act of kindness, instance of joy or buried beauty.
“Mother,” Kayla says, closing the distance between herself and Hecate, “You have called to us and we have come.”