The Gates of Horn and Ivory - coming soon

Persephone watched the red juice of the pomegranate drip through her fingers, looking very much like blood, and spill on the frozen ground, which drank it eagerly through porous ice, the same way it had done with all the blood spilled throughout history. Centuries and centuries of conflicts, and bloodshed, and empires, and ambitions rose and fell and were forgotten, while the thirsty earth, whose favor the silly humans were trying in vain to propitiate with blood sacrifices, brought forth more bounty, not bending to the whims and demands of the latter, who were never satisfied, but in order to express its own purpose for being.

How patient was mother Gaia, her blessed great-grandmother, who was an aspect of herself as well. They shared identities, the gods, appearing in whatever form inspired them and best served to convey their messages. 

The young goddess of the dead stretched her hands and blessed the ground with the juice of pomegranates, to strengthen the spirits of the lost before their long chtonic journey.

The quiet mourning of the community slowly morphed into a more agitated state, with women getting up, one by one, to tend to the things that needed doing, from brewing the ceremonial wine to setting the table for the feast, while still refraining from talking, food and drink awaiting the breaking of the fast which happened at sundown.

Not too far from her, two mourners with their long unbraided hair wrapped around their arms, so it wouldn’t catch fire, were mixing aromatic mind altering herbs into the drink of the dead. Persephone recognized night shade, ivy and morning glory, and the ghostly pallor of wormwood.

The women whispered over the boiling libation, while its steam rose and got absorbed through their nostrils and skin, making their eyes shine and all the blood rush to their cheeks.

A single cry announced the breaking of the fast and the women got up, relieved to end their motionless silence, filling the quiet mist with laughter, pouring libations and bringing out baked items and poppets whose suggestive shapes were meant to provoke laughter and lighten up the spirits. Somewhere in the back somebody was keeping a lively rhythm on a bendir, while the lyre followed it with intricate flourish, accompanied by cheerful voices.

The air was filled with women’s loudness, and freedom from all their societal bonds; here, among their sisters, away from men and protected by the secrecy of the ritual, they were allowed to speak their minds, to be loud and shrill and foul mouthed, here where nobody would judge and preach and rule their lives for them.

Protected by Demeter, they engaged in jokes and dances that their male companions would have found inconceivable, transforming from dutiful, long suffering and subservient matrons into the wild and free forces of nature they were meant to be: the bringers of life, of nurturing, of pleasure, and of beauty. 

The world was ugly without women, without their never ending patience, love and sacrifices. A brutal and gory succession of bloody deaths and battles, a place which would have made Tartarus look pleasant. 

All there ever happened in this world was a never ending fight for power and wealth, at any cost, accepting unspeakable sacrifices for its vain glory, somebody else’s sacrifices most of all, and nobody ever asked the women whether they agreed to any of them, because they were supposed to be quiet, obedient and not have opinions, hidden behind walls and not allowed even to share meals with each other. Everywhere else the world did not consult them in its pointless repetitive drama of ambitions, greed and bloodthirsty ire, everywhere but here.

Let your daughters drink and dance, then, mother Gaia, and let them speak words that would make sailors blush. Let them be free to worship their fertility rites away from rigid minds and arbitrarily imposed laws. And yes, let them express their womanhood however they saw fit, unbound by the mores of society and the sententious tongue lashing of the hierophants, for even in their old age, or homely countenance, even with disheveled hair and stained clothing, eyes glossy from the wine and the potent herbs they indulged in, performing obscene dances and jokingly sacrificing totems and baked goods shaped like pigs, snakes and body parts that should not be mentioned to the fire, they were all beautiful.