I’m back to creative writing after an absence like a walk in an arid place. Now the words flow again, but not as quickly as before, and their refinement requires effort. Sentences and paragraphs change emphasis as I seek the precise meaning that I wish to express. The former spring gushing stream of consciousness writing has dried up. Now I must reach down with a pail; and it is rickety and leaks. My new mechanism reflects a process of search and discovery. Previously I expressed a yearning for identity. Now I am finding responses, and they encouraging an onward journey through terrain that can be tough yet beautiful. This reinvention of creativity reflects a refinement of those responses, like a panning for gold or a search for treasure. The labour can be hard, but it is worthwhile.
This story is written particularly for a friend who is exploring the balance between the poles of her psyche.
The afternoon was hot and dry. From a cloudless sky the bright sun heated the bare hillside and reflected from the many rocks. No breeze cooled a solitary traveller and his horse as they crossed an open south-facing flank of a great mountain ridge. Above the slow-moving pair an expanse of rough grass and bare stone reached towards a broad rounded peak. Below the ground dropped away towards a heavily wooded valley, and then more slowly gave way as a succession of wandering low ridges and hummocks of hills all clad in the soft green of a broad rich forest.
I rode across the oblique face of the mountain, gently descending towards the lowland heat. This last league was the conclusion of a long ride from a deep valley now hidden beyond the ridge to the north. The twisting climb from those wooded depths had occupied a whole morning. After crossing a high defile the slow descent of a narrow path took another two hours. Now my goal was near. Toiling across the sweep of mountain flank took me to an outlying ridge where the woods reached up high like a dark green hand caressing the bare grass. The track that I had been following headed deliberately downhill, they way that shepherds and woodsmen headed. But I left the path and rode uphill a short distance, skirting the bottom of a low mossy cliff to slip between gnarled pine trees. A short steep climb led to a cleft in the rocks that reminded me of a gateway, the entrance to a hidden expanse known to just a few travellers. There ahead was a grassy space bounded by close-set pines and punctuated by clumps of majestic beech trees. The pasture, almost circular in shape and dropping from north to south, extended some three hundred paces across. At its centre a clear spring fed a shallow pool, from where water gushed and tumbled into a crevice and disappeared towards the valley bottom far below. It is a lovely spot, remote and tranquil, containing a rough wooden wayfarer’s hut where I have slept on numerous occasions before and after that day.
Tired and hot I dismounted and led my mare to the cool clear spring that bubbles forth from the rocks amidst a beech grove. I stripped the sweaty skewbald, leaning her saddle against a convenient bole and piling bridle, saddlebags, bow and quiver alongside. Released into freedom my mare ambled into the pool and began to drink. Then I undressed to the point of nakedness and followed her into the water. I splashed her all over, washing salt and scurf from her coat. Then I washed myself as she lay down and rolled in the shallow water. The big wet skewbald wandered off to graze as I cleansed myself and cooled after hours in the dry dusty heat. Finally I slipped beneath a great tree, my back stretched against the beech bark as I reclined cool and happy. Beyond the shade the afternoon was hot and bright.
My mare whinnied suddenly and with evident pleasure. I looked about only to spy a tall woman neither young nor old leading her horse along the path that I had taken. Quickly I pulled on the green trousers and tunic that were typical in those parts then walked out barefoot to greet her. I knew and respected this woman from stories that were almost legendary in their intensity and the patina of telling and retelling. Detouring via the spring and filling the carved wooden wayfarers’ cup that sat there always awaiting use, I approached her with a mix of excitement and trepidation within my heart. Black was her hair but threaded with grey, her dress was a rusty red gathered in an intricately tooled belt, and dark were her dusty boots. Her eyes were bright and perceptive, resting upon my face and seeming to penetrate my mind. Her face and forearms were brown and almost a little leathery from long exposure to the sun, creating the impression of a true and experienced traveller familiar with the long road and open spaces. Her horse was a strong bay, equipped with a well made saddle and bridle. Her saddle bore convenient leather bags at front and rear, and a full quiver hung from the right side. Over her back was slung a short horseman’s recurve bow. Here indeed was one whom the wolves had sniffed at. The same beasts had sniffed at me too.
‘Welcome, wise one’, I said when she was a few paces away, ‘please drink this good water.’ She reached out a brown hand and took the cup, raising it to savour the cool refreshing liquid.
‘Please bring me another’, she said, smiling. Quickly I fetched a second cupful of cool clear water from the spring. As she drank I looked at her tanned face, thinking how much older than I she was, and how courageous and energetic to wander these wild places.
Returning the cup she took my hands in hers and stood silent. I felt as if I stood naked whilst she probed my heart, as if a light shone within me that no shadow might remain unexplored. Then soft warmth seemed to wash over me, like a gentle loving assurance that I had passed her examination and was accepted. She withdrew her hands and mine dropped to my waist, having to grasp the cup that I did not drop it.
Swiftly my visitor removed bags, saddle and bridle from her horse. My mare approached and the traveller looked at me. ‘Is your horse good and kind?’ she asked. I replied to the affirmative. ‘So also is my horse good-hearted. I see that you are generous of spirit, and so am I’.
‘Thank you, wise one’, I replied.
Then she turned her horse to graze. I watched her pull off tall supple boots then cast off her knee-length dress. ‘Do you want to bathe again?’ she asked, seeming to know that I had not long left the water that was so welcome on a hot afternoon. I nodded. I watched her pull a vest over her head and draw down tight-fitting leggings then uncertainly followed her lead by removing my tunic and trousers.
One could not allow oneself to be surprised by the wise ones. Part holy fool, part mystic, indeed in small measure warrior too, these rare travellers loved to shock and surprise the few whom they truly trusted. Embarrassment apart I was being accepted into that small band of accomplices, having passed her probing my mind and heart. A thrilling realisation ran through me like the shock of a draught of strong beverage.
Into the cool water we strode, barefoot and naked, me a little behind her. Pebbles beneath my feet, smooth and mobile, stimulated my senses. The water reached our knees. Then she stooped down and splashed me, and I returned the gesture. Water ran from my shoulders and hair, and cascaded from her laughing face and bare breasts that were pert still despite her age. I laughed too, awakened as from a dream by the cool water and by her open acceptance of me. Then she pointed to a flat-sided rock, indicating that to be her favourite place to sit in the water. At her beckoning I sat with my back against the warm stone, the water lapping around my armpits. She settled down in front of me, nesting her bottom between my spread thighs. As she relaxed against me tentatively I put my arms around her shoulders, half expecting to be repulsed. But instead I felt her wet hair against my face, a reminder that she was very nearly as tall as me. She breathed out long in a gesture of relaxation.
‘You call me wise’, she said, ‘as do many, some in jest, some seriously and a few from their wisdom. However you are trustworthy and are no fool as I discerned before I entered the water.’
‘Long have I waited to meet you’, I replied, ‘though I did not imagine that it would be like this’.
‘I am your mother and your sister, and indeed a part of you too, for we are more alike than you realise’ she mused. Then with a laugh she added, ‘and now that I don’t any longer feel something firm pressing into my back I think that you inner unconscious accepts this complex relationship.’
I was glad for the calming effect of the cold water, though still my cheeks blushed at her recognition of that which, in my masculinity, I could not prevent. I sensed that she felt my twinge of shame for she snuggled a little more firmly against me. In my soul I was thrilled at this safe easy companionship.
We talked at length, part way that conversation through climbing from the stream to warm and dry ourselves on the grassy bank. She told me of her wanderings, long journeys guiding and healing those who needed help. In turn I talked of my travels, of how I sought a vocation, and of the complexity that I felt within me. The last especially was unfamiliar terrain upon which to guide a stranger, however my companion exuded a sense of trustworthiness. Besides, had she not accepted me? Then she talked of duality, and that concept struck a chord in me. ‘I am double’, she said, ‘two in one, and so are you. A part that I represent is within you – the soft tender intuitive part that you don’t quite know how to place. Well now accept that as a part of you like you accept me as a friend.’ This advice was unexpected, and yet it seemed that she had indeed gazed deep within me.
It is true that I saw complexity within me, and that I did not readily fit into the easy stereotypes of the simple society in which I had been raised. Therefore I inclined towards the wanderers and the healers, the monks and seers who were to be found in the hills and mountains back then. It was true that I practiced a trade, working with metal. Blades I could fashion, and good ones too. Ploughs, forks and nails I could make also. There was a forge in my home village and others besides where I worked in time of need – my need for money or others’ needs for weapons or tools. Thus my forearms were strong and there was a fine blade, light and sharp, hanging at my waist in a leather scabbard as I travelled. A bow I carried too, and that I preferred as a weapon since it was effective at sufficient range to allow ready flight after engagement. But most of all I preferred to avoid the need to use any weapon. That trade, and the weapons that I carried, were sufficiently masculine that none questioned my inner desires or observed confusion within. It was true nevertheless that I felt a peculiar divergence within, a sense that my innermost being embodied parts both of the masculine and the feminine. But in those days I lacked the knowledge, indeed the vocabulary, to explore such feelings. Simply I felt them intuitively, not realising that intuition itself was a telling characteristic.
Many other words followed – words that relaxed and enlightened me. In those moments I perceived a new and gentle understanding from a woman who was knowing but not critical. In my heart I began to love her with a deep and yet familial love.
As the sun fell we carried our bags to the hut beyond the spring, the travellers’ refuge surrounded by a rough fence that enclosed a pasture. Our horses we brought within the fence and allowed then to graze together. Then, wishing to be hospitable, I lit a fire from fallen twigs and branches, and began to prepare food from my bags. It did not surprise or embarrass me that I, of the two travellers, had quite naturally adopted the role of host and cook.
‘See’, she said, ‘you bear a part of me, Hawk the wanderer, or should I say a part of the feminine spirit that I embody as healer and guide. But that part should not dominate for maleness as your people know it serves you very well. Balance is the hardest target to strike. I am a traveller too, not without strength, determined and able to defend myself. Thus I embrace a part of that so-called maleness, and I respect it. Be grateful for the licence that you enjoy to travel without censure. However in us the two parts should combine to create a whole that is greater than the sum of the parts. So it is for me, and so also for you.’ Then reaching into her baggage she drew forth a new red tunic decorated with geometric patterns wrought in bright yellow and green. It was beautiful and well made, and rather unusual. It seemed neither to belong to a specific gender nor to any tribe that I knew. Indeed perhaps it was more ceremonial than common wear. ‘I’ve been seeking you to give this gift’, she said with a smile. I must have looked surprised, and indeed I did not often receive gifts. ‘Try it’, she commanded in a voice soft yet unavoidable. I complied, absorbed by the enticing spell that she had woven in her wisdom and mystery. ‘No-one will pass by tonight’, she observed, ‘therefore be free to become yourself through your outward appearance’. Here was a facet of my character that I had not previously exposed to critical view, let alone allowed to be drawn from me by another. She smiled. ‘You are comfortable as yourself, the dusty green-clad traveller who greeted me, and like a brother who bathed with me. But you must become comfortable with yourself as a whole. Now it is for you to define how you appear, and indeed make that acceptable.’
‘You deem me a two spirit?’ I questioned.
She smiled. ‘Of course, isn’t that obvious to you? Isn’t our new freedom together a welcome release for you? But you need to understand what this new realisation means.’
It was. ‘You realise that this is confusing to me’, I replied slowly.
‘Character is complex. Simpler people look for easy models. A man is strong and works with his hands, or travels far and wide to trade. A woman provides a comfortable home, cares for children, and dispenses compassion. A man gathers and defends whilst a woman loves and heals. That is how they understand the genders, governing how most of them live their lives. But some men can dispense hospitality, can love and heal. A few women enjoy travel, like to trade, and can even fight too in time of need. But those of us who stand above and beyond the boundaries tend to be misunderstood and feared. Or do we deny our desires and live frustrated? Perhaps we are too complex for some people? I travel dispensing wisdom and empowerment, yet I tread a narrow path between acceptance by a thoughtful few and distrust by the many. You work iron in the fire, yet you have a talent for healing. Your ironwork is unusually creative and deep within you embody a love of colour and decoration.’
‘What does that make me?’ I asked curiously.
Hawk laughed. ‘You can be slow, but I forgive you for this must seem strange. You are yourself, an amalgam, the best of two beings one inside the other. Don’t try to be just one or the other, but a happy synthesis. Be strong and creative with your hands, tender and hospitable, intuitive and colourful, and learn to be a healer too. The last especially I can guide you in. The goodness and skill within you mean that oddities will be accepted, as mine usually are.’
We sat on the bench outside the hut as the sun slipped towards the horizon. A welcome cool fell across the land. A little gentle breeze moved her hair and moved the hems of our garments. I looked down at the smooth fabric that sat across my thighs, enjoying its colour and uniqueness. Beyond our two horses grazed contentedly, tails occasionally swishing.
‘Hawk’, I began, ‘I’ve begun tonight to explore the duality within me, and I thank you for helping without causing embarrassment. But how do I move forward, for few will understand?’
She pondered thoughtfully. ‘Duality is within. You don’t need to copy any group in order to express both elements of your character. Indeed there are not two sides, for that sounds as if you are at war within. Rather it is like forest and meadow, the most interest and variety being where they mingle. Or it is like mountain and valley, the greatest beauty being in a fold of the turning land such as where we sit now. Be yourself with truth and integrity, enjoying and respecting what you find. This garb isn’t the dull regular male clothing of your people, nor is it feminine as women dress. Simply it expresses your uniqueness, thus it is symbolic. But bringing me water, holding me gently and preparing food for me were good and varied expositions of a kind, thoughtful strand within. You have moved beyond a fixed role governed by people’s expectations based upon your anatomy. Besides, one could wear the finest dress and be mean and lazy! Nor were you forward with me when we were naked, and that distinguishes you from most men. It is that which lies within which truly matters.’
‘What if I had been forward?’ I asked with curiosity in my voice?
‘I could have encouraged you, for you are handsome and probably a warm gentle lover. But then you would have left unenlightened as a man too passionate to look within. Or I might just have told you to stop.’
‘And if I wouldn’t stop?’
Hawk raised her eyebrows and smiled, replying in a cheerful voice, ‘You wouldn’t live until dawn.’
‘So there are the two poles of your inner complexity?’
‘When I looked into your heart after drinking from the spring I knew perfectly well that I can trust you. A part of you looks on me like a sister and you are driven by far more than a craving for transient pleasure. Besides, two-spirits together make poor lovers. They are too similar to make a pair of complimentary opposites, and think too much about what is happening.’
‘That may be true, however you didn’t answer my question’, I replied.
‘Not directly’, Hawk remarked still smiling, ‘tangents are more rewarding and a riddle more interesting. But this I shall say: what is gained at one pole represents a loss at the opposite. The trick is to nurture the greatest total.’
‘Like the high point between two valleys?’ I ventured.
‘That is for you to work out. Sometimes I am teacher, more often gatekeeper. If you have the wisdom and goodness and courage to pass my gate then you will be well capable of navigating the terrain beyond.’
The sun slipped down below the undulating dark horizon, and the sky transitioned from orange to a deep blue that soon darkened towards black. Stars twinkled, and soon the moon rose. But before the moon’s soft light enveloped the now cold hills Hawk and I were fast asleep below warm blankets on soft hay in the hut.
In the morning I dressed myself in my familiar dusty travelling clothes and set about checking the horses and lighting a cooking fire. Hawk watched me, and I sensed that she was sitting back to prove a point. As I placed a steaming mug of tea in front of her the older woman smiled. ‘See, you are true to yourself irrespective of how you appear outwardly.’
‘But it was a joy to express my spirit outwardly.’
Her smile broadened. ‘We’ll journey to the market and acquire some brighter gear for you, my friend. You need to express a joyful and creative spirit.’
After breakfast we prepared our horses and set off down the valley, heading for the nearest town two days journey away.