The night was a dark one, with just a sliver of the moon shining behind gossamer wisps of clouds . The spanish moss hanging from the huge ancient mangrove trees provide an air of secrecy, as she steps forward from the boat. With bare feet , it’s as if she is connected instantly as she feels the earth beneath her. Pulling her cloak closer, she gathered the things she had brought with her tonight. Things have been off kilter as of late…some things needing a tweaking, other things to be let go. It was time to call the storm. She walked forward to a clearing that was used for ritual work. Secluded, private, and unseen by those who have not the eyes to notice where it was located. As she approached, it seemed as if the wild life that resided in the swamp knew why she had arrived, as they made their presence known. Alligators splashed their tails upon the water, the cranes covered their nests with their wings as if they know what is coming, and are in agreement. The croak of the bullfrogs seem to beat in rhythm to the energy that is beginning to stir…singing a chorus only known to them. She walks into the clearing, greeting the keeper of the gate as she does, and moves toward a place where the fire has already been stacked in preparation of her coming. All is in readiness. She stepped closer and snapped her fingers, bringing life to the fire, which illuminated the sheltered copse as a protected circle. Drawing a bundle of herbs from her cloak, she tossed them into the cauldron that sat beside the fire, and she moved it to catch the heat of the flame, letting the perfume from the herbs waft around her. She breathes in deeply, letting the warmth and perfume envelop her, filling her with peaceful energy. She smiles to herself because she knows this is but the eye. She turns then to the small bag she has brought with her, setting up a small altar with candles, rum, incense and sits a small drum down beside a rock near the fire. Standing before the altar, she welcomes those in who would work with her this night and then turns to the drum. She begins to drum lightly, caressing the skin as a lover might, smiling as it begins to vibrate within her spirit, as she continues to play watching as the fireflies dance to the rhythm overhead. As she drums, she begins to sing..words of old, known to but a few, calling the storm to come and clear the air, to toss out that which no longer works, and causes pain. To reap chaos on those who willingly put themselves in the way of the storm that has been building, calling it to themselves as if they were a magnet. The storm clouds begin to gather and the wind blows from the east, bringing with it change, raging, howling, moving, swirling with its anger. The rain begins to rage as rapids, like the waterfalls over mountains in all its fury, and yet she sings on… calling out to the elements that bring forth life and fill her soul with renewal. The rain, wind and drum dance together, filling the night with their energy. In and out, over and under, all around it flows until there is no beginning or end to any of them. And still she sings until at last all of her energy is spent, and the drum falls silent. She sits now, spent and exhausted as the last of the storm begins to dies down and all that is left is a cleanliness to the air, and a light cleansing rain falling. She smiles and places the drum back into her bag, giving it one last small pat in thanks, and gathers the pieces of the altar. She sits and contemplates before the fire, then thanks those who lent their assistance and drinks one small libation with the gatekeeper. She makes her way back to the entrance, not looking back because she knows that the fire will be extinguished and things made aright as they always are. As she seats herself in the small boat to makes her way home, she knows that whatever the storm has wrought, will be necessary and things will be righted in balance once more.
tempête parfaite