The Creek, Page 2

feet to the water. As she stepped on the first rock, her foot slipped, and she fell under the current, banging her head and body on the rocks as the water churned her body about.

  The young man, horrified, fished her out immediately, watching the water build in speed and rush with rage and angry resentment. Lisa’s blood washed onto land, into the fertile soil, and splashed onto the roots and pedals of the surrounding garden beds.

  She lay dying in his arms. His eyes filled with salty tears and clouds filled the sky above. Thunder rolled across the heavens, as the angels began to weep for the dying girl.

  Quickly, the young man lifted her up and rushed her into the darkest part of the forest, where no human has ever traveled before, where no angel dares to tread. Through the thickest of the trees and the most forbidding of the wild, he found the old cottage that stood in a clearing on many wooden legs. Smoke billowed from the chimney, and there was a large rusted cauldron with a big wooden spoon sitting on the porch.

  The broken down cottage looked abandoned, the stairs old and rickety, threatening to give way under his weight.

  He kicked the door three times.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  There was shuffling inside, but nobody came to the door.

  “Open! It is urgent!” he yelled out.

  The door creaked open just a crack, and the young man pushed himself through, his pale skin turning a tint of red from the blood that was touching the skin of his shell. The air inside the cottage was potent and smelled of cloves, cinnamon, bergamot, and other earthy herbs. A hunched figure stood hiding in a shadowed corner.

  “Why have you come?” The voice was ragged, old, and dangerous.

  “I’ve come for help. She has fallen in the creek and is dying.”

  The figure was silent for a long time before she shuffled slowly toward them.

  “She is not dying, you fool. Set her on the sofa and leave.” Her voice cut through the darkness like a well-sharpened sword.

  “I can’t just leave her here,” the young man protested, staring at the crawling figure moving toward them.

  The old woman limped into a small stream of light that came through a crack in the boarded window. There, before him, was the oldest woman he had ever seen, with a nose that looked like a tree branch, wrinkles as deep as chasms, a hunch like a sack of flour, and black eyes that were teeming with the power of death, yet filled with timeless knowledge and archaic wisdom.

  Thinking this was not the woman to cross, he laid Lisa on the couch, withdrew from the cottage, and walked slowly back the way he came, toward his creek.

  Inside the cottage, the old witch hummed and sung the song of life over the body that was almost dead. She sang from her bones, the marrow that gave life; she sang with her breath, the air that gave oxygen and the wind that cleared the way; she sang of the fire in her will and the power of her healing; and she sang of the wisdom of love and the fluidity of life it provides.

  All the while, the old woman gathered her herbs, stoked the fire, filled the cauldron, and listened for the tick-tock thrum that gave away the exact moment in time the potion would be ready.

  Several hours later, after many songs, and many chants, and many drinks from the spoon of the cauldron, Lisa awoke and stared at the terrifying woman before her. But, as she looked in the old woman’s eyes, she saw life without end. Lisa knew that, before her, was a creature that must have seen the creation of the Universe, and she was not afraid.

  “What happened?” she croaked out of a dry and tightened throat.

  “You practically died,” the old woman said simply and moved to the fire.

  “Died?” Lisa repeated weakly.

  “You’re very clever. Yes, that’s what I said, but only practically. You are not a parakeet, girl. It happened when you tried to cross the sacred creek. Sit up and take this drink.” She handed her an old ceramic bowl the color of dust.

  “Thank you,” Lisa said.

  “Humph.” The old woman sat in the rocking chair across from the sofa to watch the young maiden before her.

  Many minutes passed while Lisa drank from the bowl and looked around the small cottage, which was bright and colorful, with patterns of such intricate detail they could have only been handmade and divine-inspired. It was not what she expected for the old woman. There were tapestries on the walls, brightly patterned curtains on the windows, and large fluffy multi-colored furniture spread about the room.

  “You have a lovely home, miss,” Lisa suddenly realized she did not know the woman’s name. When she turned to look at her, she found the old woman staring with a curious expression.

  “What is it you see, child?”

  Confused, Lisa explained in great detail all she could see in the room around her, from the overstuffed orange couch she was sitting on, to the bright purple and red tapestry hanging on the ceiling like a tent. The old woman cackled loudly.

  Lisa jumped at the abrupt assault of that wicked laugh. Surely, she had said nothing particularly amusing, but the old woman continued to laugh anyway.

  After a while, the old woman settled and said, “you are in a broken down old hovel, child. The fact that you see the beautiful surroundings suggests you were right to find the creek at the time you did. You see beauty where there is none. Sadly, those who reach the creek too early have a hard time finding beauty in the passing over. I am Baba Yaga.”

  She said this with such certainty that Lisa got the sinking feeling she was supposed to know who that was, although the name sounded familiar. Her confusion must have shown because Baba Yaga mumbled something vile and said, “I’m the oldest Witch in time with powers bestowed upon me by the Gods! I am the Mother of Mothers and the guide through Womanhood. For Pan’s sake, child, what do they teach you in this world?”

  Lisa stared, blankly. She had heard of Baba Yaga, but only in fairytales and the Witch in those was always frightening and cruel, threatening to punish the naughty and mischievous children with lashes from poisonous snakes or bites from feral wolves. Each story from around the world differed in details, and many have different names depending on the region.

  Baba Yaga smiled when recognition crossed Lisa’s face.

  “I have saved your life, but that does not come free,” Baba Yaga whispered. “You will learn the way of this part of the forest, where the world’s healing, knowledge, and wisdom can be found. You may go back home, but you must come back to this cottage for three days at the full moon in every month to learn the ways you are destined to be taught.”

  At that moment, Lisa remembered something her grandmother had told her when she was very young. After one of her romps in the forest, she had bounded into the house to find her grandmother waiting at the kitchen table with a serene and gentle smile on her lips. She told Lisa a story, which was about how a young girl learned the ways of being a woman in this world.

  “You must always remember, Lisa,” her grandmother had said, “Should you be given the chance to touch Divine wisdom, you must accept it with grace. Too many young people become preoccupied with the physical aspects of living, they miss the call completely. You mustn’t let this happen”

  That moment burned in Lisa’s memory because, shortly thereafter, her grandmother passed. Finally, after thinking longingly of her grandmother’s light and love, Lisa nodded and agreed to come back every month during the entire phase of the full moon. As she left the cottage, Baba Yaga followed, crawled into her old rusted cauldron, and swished the spoon in the air like an oar. With a loud rumble, the heavy cauldron lifted into the air, and rose higher and higher, into the sky above the trees. Baba Yaga cackled with delight, moving the spoon-oar and sailing high above the world with her long gray hair flying behind her. Lisa could hear that laugh all the way back to her house at the edge of the trees.

  While she agreed to learn the ways of Divine Wisdom, Lisa vowed never to go near the creek again. She feared the strength of the current, b
ut, every month, she traveled deep into the darkest part of the forest to meet with the Witch who showed her the magic of this world that no human could touch but her. She learned the ways of herb and root lore, tree and animal spirit communication, and knowledge that she never could have imagined.

  After 13 months of returning to the cottage and learning the Ways, Baba Yaga told her that it was time she performed her final duty of collecting water from the other side of the creek. Frightened, Lisa refused.

  “This is the final lesson, child,” Baba Yaga barked impatiently. “Is that not what you began traveling into the forest for? Go and fetch water from the creek and bring it back here,” she growled at the young maiden.

  “…but the creek almost killed me!”

  “Yes, that part of the creek did, but there are other ways to cross. You need only walk a while to find a gentler stream.”

  Hesitantly, and with uncertain steps, Lisa made her way back to the creek with a large bucket. She moved past the spot where she fell, further down the edge until the water soothed and gently trickled over the rocks.

  She could feel the presence of the young man who had saved her, and she smiled. She was safe.

  She stepped into creek and sighed happily as the soil settled between her toes and the cool water washed over her feet, making her way slowly to the other side. The moment she stepped foot on the soil in that earth, life burst forth