The Creation Myth of Morganna Le Fay

What, no, of what am I made? When I feel as if I am flying, the fall, the feathered-flight – then am I necessarily happy? Uncontained perhaps, liberated to a certain extent, existence is always qualified. But beyond that who is to know. There is earth and there is fire and then there are the elements in between – water and air. I understand earth: solidity, reliable, security, deep: the rumble in the heart, the slow moving sometimes infinitely so, but beneath that vast imponderable instability a volcanic heart, molten profoundly explosive not fracturing, that would be easy, this is the explosion that tumbles the body: impact, the blood stops its ceaseless drive: shock. Change that wreaks havoc, but no that is not all, it is larger than words; can one speak in earth-words, dance them, stones in the mouth, words carved out of stone, there is no yielding in this, no hint of sway. There is a finality, a thunderous collapse and the echoes that come after. I will say the earth words one day, I will sing to the mountains old dark heart. I will make them. With what art I cannot understand yet, I am not young, I am not wise. Will time answer it? Finally do we not go home to the cave from which we came, limping and stuttering, gibbering to formlessness, crouched less clean than the fluid grace of animals. With all the indecency of knowledge we stagger and earth waits, earth waits, the cradle and the grave. Will we never learn to love it, the clay gathering in our mouths, are feet sliding in mud, our fingers probing its secrets. Indifferent, unmoved, earth waits, unknowable.
And of air: a game a set of tricks, the wind. How the eagle would despise me for that. Ah there is power, there is unpredictability, there is rage, storm, reckless wanton eluding constraint. We call this freedom, such is our incomparable foolishness, because wind, wind speaks, a degree of caprice not necessarily with intention. Air stirring the hair upon my skin, tactile, sometimes electric, intranslateable; it is not breathing, that belongs to the sea. Perhaps it is the shaping of breathing but no, it will not be named for I know its history, the divinity of wind, the breathing of Gods, the tremble of prophesy, afflatus, and in all that I know nothing. I have seen the water ripple as the wind sings to it, I have seen the trees dance, I sense this conspiracy, the grass flattens, the whirling red madness in the desert. Do I come closer to it? Madness, windness, energy defying form. What then is the language of the wind, is that possible in its myriad voices, but they are not the wind, they are only the wind playing in the world. Wind sings in the winter hollows, where does it go after it has rattled my bedroom windows like an orphan trying to come home. And when it has emptied my heart with its longing, when I have cried for all the inexpressible songs it has played over me, upon me, through me, leaving me like a lover aching to dissolve back into it, to become it, transpose its melodies, transfuse it, I find that it is not there, that it is but it isn’t. So how will I ever make mind contemplate the first utterance of wind. Chameleon.
Fire, the blue ice-cold heart of flame. Creatrix. Clever, gifted, the salamander gleaming, oh for the golden cities that fire creates, the intricate world it constructs; its gaping maws open consuming all, spewing them back forth; mangled but beautiful, terrible in beauty. Yes I know: the Burning Ground. I know the furious drive, the glory of being upthrust into the air and form, gasping for air and I do not forget the ice blue heart; fire taking first form in a ring of contradictions, how it spirals, springs like a cat then dies so quick, it eludes me, Prometheus Unbound, the poet as the thief of fire, the artist shaping her own form on the loom as the Catherine Wheel spins by. And I know, I still feel the burn, flesh melting in the flame, the charnel house and even as I shape it, clever gifted artful in conceit it deceives me, leaves changing, seeking the next exit, the next awesome creature, the next victim laying naked on the altar; it sings in a pure language, cleansing, transmuting the ordinary making magic in the dark; yes it shapes its own form, tracing the glittering path of emptiness, of wisdom, vanishes, appears, hinting at mystery, plays, contorts. Say truly what it is: fire, flame, ashes, embers. A fury, a calm, the sun. The language burns as I write it, as each forms flaming it dies and something else comes: a memory of what it truly was, its song arches and dances, claws and screams in a rage that is not rage, consuming itself but not. Ah, mystery.
Water: I name my mother. Who I cannot know but know as intimately as I know my skin, my breast. The kingdom of water, the quietness pregnant with sound, colour, as easy to sing as to breathe, as it trembles under touch, rippling. In it are all things suspended, calm paralysed but not, it is containing but ah the ease of it as it moves effortless, not driven but gliding; sometimes flips, plays games, eddies in and out, tidal pulling all with it, resistance is futile. Inexorable but not imposing a subtle thief of will, heart, mind, the body drifting sensory. How could it not for we were first formed in the aquamarine womb where the green phosphorescence bespoke our spirit. Watch the blood flow how it seeps, so slowly into each crevice, each hidden unholy dream; a vision; who will stand before it, who can, who wishes to. And the language of water is so old, remorseless, gravid. I hear it in the stillness that comes before sound, the expectation of its utterance. I know its dark heart, the water wave kings, the monstrous shape of its body should it turn upon us, I remember breathing water without fear in a dark place that was warm, in the place before fear grew and we called ourselves human. I cannot say truly what it is, the deep, the structure of a single cell, a call, this and more, so much more that my tongue feels ponderous, heavy, it knows the words are older than the tongue, the throat, the chords that oscillate in the larynx; it remembers somehow the first word and an echo; a cadence struggling to find form. Mouth opens, strangles, water it will not relent. It has no heed. Inevitable.
This then is the fragile chalice of wisdom that I will offer to the Gods or to the women who come after me. For I am Morganna, reviled by all men for the powers of my witchcraft and the even darker powers of my womb. At my name once the raven killed and a flock of cranes took flight. Did not Merlin love me and teach me all his art? For I was fay and queen of a vast estate and in the tower of crystal no vision was I spared. Too long from stillness now my hands have roamed this dark tapestry, weaving the music of stars, threads of flowers, trees and the boundless cycle of the sea. waiting here at the edge of the world I have become a huntress of memory, a cadence of myth, cold sister to a dark moon. Beyond me the gloaming dances, spinning light, the sun silvers into eve and the world moves into a blistering emptiness. In the dark void coming there will be a murmuring of dreams and the earth will tremble into unbecoming. And the people will fall beneath the lathe and claw of the weeping darkness. Only I, Morganna, will remain, a lingering incantation in a cage of shadows. For time is an instrument, an unholy lute that plays upon the unwary heart with skill.

O for the single benediction of death.
Remember me.

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