Cante mitawa.

Now and forever.

They come down out of the hills at sunset. The sky over the mountains burns gold and crimson, its fire sheeting over the surface of the water that lies still in the calm evening. Koda pauses, taking in the sweep of the lake from north to south, its whole surface struck to bronze in the fading light. The cries of birds going to roost along its rocks, gulls and terns like pale ghosts as they skim above the shore, come to them where they stand on the last slope of the foothills. A chill runs over Koda’s skin that has little to do with the coming of the night. Something old and unnamed stirs within her—a memory, a fear, something that has been or will be, she cannot tell. Glancing at Kirsten beside her, she sees unspoken recognition in her face, something that calls to her out of time, out of the confines of common space.

Unbidden, there comes again the image of a pale head and bronzed, flashing arms above the waves of the Aegean, wine-dark as the combers roll over it to shore. A breeze ghosts by, and it seems to lift a strand of hair from Kirsten’s shoulder, only that shoulder is level with her own, and the hair is black as a raven’s wing. Time runs oddly in this place, sacred to the Mother of All Life under all the names by which she has been known.

“Ina,” Koda murmurs. “Wakan.”

Beside her, acting as their guide, Dale nods. “Mother Earth. This is Her place.”

Far from shore, an island looms dark against the mountains behind it. Huge white shapes circle it, riding the darkening air on outstretched wings, necks tucked against their keelbones, bills deep copper in the lingering light. Kirsten tilts her head back to watch as they circle, sixty of them, perhaps seventy, in a trailing V formation. “Pelicans?” she says tentatively. “They look like something from a different time, like sailing ships.”

“They breed here,” Dale answers her unspoken question. “We’ll be going around to the other side where we won’t disturb them.”

As she speaks, the sun dips behind mountains. In the thickening shadows, a light breaks out at the top of the huge rock formation that gives the Lake its name, a pyramid rising from the near shore some four hundred feet above the surface. It flickers a moment, steadies, then flares into a flame that leaps toward the sky. A dark figure, silhouetted against it, cries out, “Who comes? Name yourselves!”

Koda steps forward. “Dakota chunkshi Themunga,” she answers.

There is a moment’s silence, and Kirsten glances up at Koda. Then she says, “Anne, daughter of Marilyn.”

“Who speaks for you?

“I do, Dale fia d’LouAnn. And so does the Riga.”

“Pass on, then, if you come in friendship.”

The sentry shifts slightly, a dark shape against the light of the fire. She wears a bird mask with a large bill and a trail of streamers that fall down her back: a raven, Koda thinks, with a mantle of feathers. Beneath it she wears a short, fringed garment that leaves her arms and legs bare.

“We come in perfect love and perfect trust,’ Dale answers. Koda is not quite sure of that, but she does not question the response as Dale leads them down to the shore and a boat waiting. Once on the water, the big woman takes the oars, refusing help. “Nope, thanks. This is my job.”

As the dark water passes beneath them, the sound of drums comes across the surface of the lake, amplified in its passage. At first it is only a rhythmic pulse, wordless. But as the boat makes the curve of the island, the oars dipping and rising soundlessly, words become audible, dozens of voices chanting together.

Isis, Inana. Demeter, Kore. Over and over again the same words, names of the Goddess from the foundation of the world. The drums grow louder, the chanting more insistent. ISis, iNAna. DEmeter, KOre. ISis, iNAna. DEmeter Kore. The sound grows, echoed, it seems, from the rise of the mountains to east and west, thrumming over the water in ripples like the sounding of a great whale. Kirsten, sitting beside her by the gunwales, slips her hand into Koda’s, and Koda gives her a reassuring squeeze. Kirsten is out of her element here, about to enter a level of ritual and belief which she finds difficult to accept, even when guided by Dakota or Wanblee Wapka. Koda, though, doubts she will find much unfamiliar here, and nothing frightening or repugnant. The Mother is the Mother, whatever her children call her in different ages of the world, in lands far from each other.

Dale beaches the boat in a small cove, and leads Kirsten and Dakota over the narrow beach toward a wooded rise. As they walk, almost silent on the wet sand, Koda spies a hunched shape with a bushy tail, digging at the edge of the water, and touches Kirsten lightly on the arm, pointing. As she does, the raccoon brings a mussel up from its burrow, prying with clever hands at the shell. Perhaps tactfully, it has nothing to say to the passing humans.

Sometimes a raccoon is just a raccoon.

The drums have become land-bound thunder now, the red glow of fire visible as the trees thin. They emerge into a clearing where a torches mark the edges of a circle some twenty feet across, perhaps more. A dozen women, led by Morgan, dance around a flat stone at the center, their bodies moving to the beat of the drums. All wear some variation of the sentry’s costume: raven masks, fringed leather vests with loincloths or short skirts. Around the circle stand the rest of the Amazai, some similarly dressed except for the masks, more in their everyday jeans and workshirts. They chant the Goddess’ names over and over, their hands and feet beating out the rhythm along with the drums. Kirsten nudges Koda and gestures toward the dancers, and Koda leans down to whisper, “Priestesses. I think.”

Dale guides them to a place among the Amazai. From where she stands, Koda can see that the flat stone holds a metal bowl, gold in the light of the fires, a platter piled high with small loaves with fruits and flowers ranged around it, and a smaller earthen bowl. Incense smoulders in a pierced burner, sending clouds of fragrant white smoke up over the altar. A long blade and a shorter lie crossed in the center, and at their junction stand two female figures shaped of corn stalks, one slightly bent at the shoulders, the other with long straight hair made of cornsilk. Mother and Maiden, Demeter and Kore, Goddess and Goddess.

The drumming builds to a crescendo, the dancers spinning, writhing, leaping in ever-closing circles around the altar. So suddenly the silence strikes Koda like a physical blow, the drumming ceases, and Morgan stands before the altar, arms raised, feet apart to form the five-pointed star, sign of the Goddess from Babylon to Egypt to the mounds of the Mississippi Valley. “Io!” she cries. “Evohe!”

“IO! EVOHE!” the Amazai answer.

Another silence falls, and Morgan says, “We have come here tonight to mark the turning of the year. The harvest is in, and it is good. Blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” the women echo, Koda and Kirsten with them.

“From Brigid to Lughnasa, the Maiden walks above ground. At the harvest, she retreats into the earth, and the time of fallow fields and barren wombs is upon us. We come to give her thanks and bless her path as she leaves us. We come to give her thanks, and promise her remembrance.” She turns to another woman at her side, perhaps Sarai, and hands her the long blade, which is too long to be a knife, yet is not quite a sword. “Cast the circle, that no unseemly thing may enter.”

Beginning at the north, where another stone stands, Sarai makes the cirucuit of the circle, passing three more stones at east and south and west, returning to drive the blade into the earth just to the right of the northern quarter. She returns to stand beside Morgan, who says, “Call the quarters.”

A third priestess moves to the stone in the east. A pair of antlers lies on it, and a bowl of yellow paintbrush. The woman chants:

Stag in the East,Lord of the Air,Swift-footed Sun-runnerCrowned with light.Watcher at the gates of dawn,Stand as our Guardian in the EastAnd grant us the gifts of clarity and illumination.

Another woman approaches the stone to the south of the circle. It bears an eagle’s wing and a spray of scarlet penstemon.

Eagle in the SouthLord of Fire,Eagle of midday,Strong-winged cloud-riderWreathed in flame,Watcher at the gates of noon.Stand as our Guardian in the SouthAnd grant us the gifts of strength and purpose.

In the west, where the stone holds a raven’s wing and a bowl of Kirsten’s irises and gentians, another priestess raises her hands and makes the invocation.

Raven in the West,Lady of the waters,Raven of twilight,Swift-stooping fate-bringerRobed in shadow.Watcher at the gates of evening,Stand as our Guardian in the WestAnd grant us the gifts of healing and vision.

Finally, Morgan herself moves to stand at the northern stone, where a green branch lies before the skull of a wolf.

Wolf in the North,Lady of Earth,Wolf of midnight,Soft-footed tracker of spiritsHidden in starlight.Stand as our Guardian in the NorthAnd grant us the gifts of wisdom and truth.

Morgan moves forward then, and raises the Corn Mother high above the altar, facing the Amazai. “Blessed be the Lady, Mother of all that lives. Blessed be all life that is born of Her and returns to Her again.”

“Blessed be,” the Amazai answer in unison.

She sets it down, lifting the bowl and pouring a handful of water onto the earth. “We have planted. We have watered.” Next she raises the platter of loaves. “We have harvested, we have winnowed. Lady, we give thanks for your gifts of life. We give thanks for the sweet Earth and its bounty.” Finally, she breaks one of the loaves and holds it high, the light of the fires running golden over its surface. “The Goddess has gone into the grain!”