Crowned
Short Story
by Kim Malinowski
They always danced. Pounding the earth and calling to the sun overhead. She didn’t know why they danced, only that their ancestors had done it and their ancestors’ ancestors as well. She followed the steps and let her body feel the heat of the sun and the sweltering fire. Everyone was streaked with ribbons. Men wore antlers, women bone jewelry, dazzling colors of beads were everywhere.
They called to the old horned one. There was no fear or shame. They welcomed the one that bridged the life of the squash and beans and was still the guardian of meat and lust. The horned one blessed them and perhaps, she thought, they felt their presence. She did not. Her rhythm was empty, and her worship was hollow.
She was decked in mahogany and lush purple swags trimmed with gold that rivaled the sun. She danced, skirt hitched and swaying. The dance was practiced a hundred times or more. Her feet galloped and twirled. She asked like the others but knew no magic and conjured nothing. She was not like them. She could not blindly go through motions. She needed to know and feel, to understand. She mis-stepped and found herself shaded. The others already continued past her. The sun was still bright but would fade and fall away again. The growth around her stayed. It changed as the year went on, of course, but it still felt constant.
The autumn leaves now looked soft as down on the path past the entranceway. She thought she could worship the forest. It grew. It was gnarled and tangled like her. It held every leaf she used to brew her teas and grind for poultices. It was tradition too, she thought. It wasn’t always men that crashed into the woods to look for antlers or to hunt. She thought of the old women telling her of taking down stags themselves. They needed no antlered man bedding them because the sun was bright. She slid off her shoes and placed them roughly into her bag. Her feet slid on the leaves, were grabbed by barbs and sharp stones. She was called though. She knew sacrifice and blood. The mud felt like a cool embrace compared to the raucous bonfires in the distance.
The boughs were green, and the last petals still clung to them. Moss speckled the ground and was soft over her torn feet. She did not notice the pain but felt a wholeness within her beginning. It was not because she was with her friends in the daylight, but here where the light filtered through and there was a wild scent that permeated—the scent of life and decay. No wonder the horned one would be found here. The forest was both birth and death, sensual and painful. She sat in the mud, not thinking of her gown. The sun slowly crept as she kept her private vigil. She thanked it as she never could with the dancing. For warmth and honey, she thought. Over and over, she thanked the horned one and the sun. She would find love soon enough and did not have to chase anyone with ribbons and bells or be chased by men with antlers leering falseness.
She wanted to meet the horned one. Wanted to know their magic, to walk in her ancestors’ footprints. She wanted deep, deep knowledge. She wanted to touch sacredness, be sacred, and did not know how to cry out her needs. She wanted real. She could have fun, embrace warmth and color, bathe in sunlight, but she would not do it blindly. Real love. Real. Over and over the word turned. She wanted real. The word tumbled like pebbles down a mountain. She knew she would have to be her own sacred. As if in a trance, she ripped the sleeves of her gown. The gold embroidery jagged and tied across her shoulders and one hip. She ripped out the seams of her skirt, the hem, and cradled vines and leaves around her. She thanked the honeysuckle and felt the energy of the forest change. The mud on her face was no longer accidental, and the forest knew her embrace.
She saw a person in green when she glanced up. She startled, not knowing that anyone was nearby or watching. For a moment, she flushed embarrassed at the spectacle. They smiled, rich and deep. “You have asked to be real and to be whole, to let the sun enter you and the wood swallow you. Do you know the power of your pleas?”
She sat there for a moment, not knowing what to say. Watching their horns, not quite antler, not quite goat. “I asked to place roots into the ground and fill myself with truth and feel what the others feel.”
“Yes. I heard. You sacrifice your innocence. There is magic in the forest but understand that there are hunters and even the animals feed on each other here. You ask to become part of the forest and then leave. You will leave changed.”
“Yes. I want to be changed.” She knew this was the horned one. Not man. Not woman. Just the horned one. Pelts and deep green ivy slid across them. They tossed an acorn at her, and she caught it. She did not know if she should thank them or throw it back. She held it in her palm.
“You are a child still, but I see the buttons of age coming. I think the antlers will hold.”
She was still covered in ribbons as she made her way towards them. They took hold of her hair, and she flinched at the electricity that flew from their sacredness. They twirled her already matted locks and held an antler before her. It was good sized but would fit her stature. They dug it into her tangles with a few tugs and scrapes and then followed with the other side. Soon, she stood before them, horned and full.
“Now you will celebrate.”
She noticed the word ‘celebrate.’ Did it mean go back to the others? Take her wildness to the fires and dance with meaning?
“The sun is not down. Go, worship the season even if you cannot feel the call of the heat and light.”
She went to thank them and found she was left only with the acorn and the antlers. The sun had not quite set, and the fires would burn all night. She brought her deepness out of the forest and still barefoot she danced. The spells and rituals were hers and no longer someone else’s. No one noticed her change but all felt it. The horned god was present with them and was pleased.
