I remember the cliffs. And the sea. I remember the wind, and then the storm. The dark of the night and the light of the moon. The way the waves crashed below me, and the smell of the salt air that filled my lungs. I remember the moon, and then the clouds. The lightning and the thunder. It was nighttime, and the moon was full. Would, that I might have sought another outcome. But time was short and I was desperate. And so I called the clouds, and then the storm. I occluded the moon. My Mother. The wind came and the clouds came, and they obeyed my will; torn and divided as it was. My hair streamed unbound; whipping round my face with every gust that came to heed my call. I remember my gown, but not the color. Was it russet, dark green or deepest blue. I might have wished for purple, but I think the color escaped me that night, and even in that life. Not even royalty had learned to love it then. That was later, and in another dream. I remember the drums and the pipes. The war cries. The men who died. And the boys too young to die. And still I called the wind. I called out to the Goddess! I believed then. But no divine Queen of Heaven intervened on our behalf, and I watched as blood bloomed, and ran like water beneath me. The invaders were strong; The night long, and filled with fear. I remember the dying. Felt every death blow, and breathed my last with every dying breath. I would have given everything I was to rebreath life into those brave warriors who gave everything they were to save our land - our way of life. I don’t remember the ships - did they come by sea? They must have. But for some reason I could not see them. I called the clouds. But their boats I could not see. Could they see through? Could they see me? The warriors I saw. And the fighting - yes. The war of wills that reigned under the rain, and the storm. And, yes, the storm. Most of all, I remember the storm. The storm and the wind, and the waves crashing against the cliffs. The wind was mine; the storm was mine, but neither was enough to weaken the enemy. And neither was enough to win the war. And so I wished, and I witched. And the wind came. The storm broke. Blood ran. Souls fled, or stood crying over bodies left lying in the mud. Rain came, and watered down the blood, and the spirits of attackers and defenders alike. Men will war, but rain, and a woman’s might, will ever wear them down. And so I stood, drawing lightning from the sky. Wishing water into rain. Wanting nothing more than not to be standing alone on that sheer precipice wishing down disaster, and washing blood off the face of the earth, and the faces of the men who died there. Is it any wonder then, that this is a moment I cannot forget? Cannot let go, despite the end of life, and lives. Cannot forget, nor release, for all the reconciliation that has happened over all these centuries and all these years. Indeed, the invaders became our husbands, and the fathers of our children. We mixed more blood in bed than ever we mixed on the battlefield - so much that in a hundred years you could not have told who was descended from invador or invaded. And yet I alone stood apart. Living. And dying. And living again. Standing alone. For I alone remembered. And I alone could see the life that might have been - the lives that could have been - had the world turned another way that day. Had the Goddess... had there been a Goddess, and had She turned her head... or had she head to turn. Then I should still be her Priestess. That is all arguable, of course. I should let it all go and be done with it, were it not for the fact that I myself am still here. I still return. Still remember the night, and the war, and the way of life we lost. And no matter what the time, nor who I am, I cannot let that night go. It has haunted me as nightmare, as dream, as phantasm, and fantasy - even insanity - but I cannot let it go. Cannot find peace for my spirit, nor peace for the lives I have lived, nor the bodies I have passed through in these last several centuries. The Goddess, be She real or imagined, has kept me in Her grip; coaxing life out of me when all I have ever wished for is death, or forgetfulness. But still I live. And still I seethe. There is no peace for such as me. No easy way to die. And so I haunt, albeit unsuccessfully, through life and life, and life again. And so I die, and die again. And wish for something more.
