An encounter with Honeypaws – Black Beast – Honey Stealer – King of the Forest – Golden Master – Golden Apple of the Forest – Golden Mistress of the Forest.
The night scuffled in darkness when Otso came from the wood.
A voice sang out: My darling, come to me. You the sweetness, the darkness, the eater of honey, of berries. Come to me, come to me! Handsome, beloved, eyes like black buttons. Come, come, come to me now!” cried the voice in the night.
Since the womb, this, the awaited moment. Since Honey Stealer, this Golden Mistress of the Forest became present there has been preparation for the encounter, the wedding. Through the dusky night falling on Earth, with sons gathered, dear friends and family near, He walked through the trees to the gathering grounds.
We danced, we sniffed, we parleyed, we were afraid. But Ohto, the darling, the Black Beast, the Honeypaws, the Son of the Pleiades, the Master of the Forest bent down. He offered Her his back to stroke, to touch, to test. And Daughter touched, and that was that.
Each stroke of finger, each stroke of hand, gentle, gentle like a flame brand lit within her, lit deep lights. Drew up the flame, drew up the honey, drew up the sweetness, and drew out the pain.
He let her touch his coat that is what He did. And in that touching He gathered around her, gathered her up, took her in. She trembled with knowing, she trembled with fear, and she trembled to feel great love was near.
Power of might, power of knowing, power of playing, power of longing, power of hoping, power of home.
Her feet they buckled, down she went. He held her up, he pulled her under. They were called into the warmth of the fire, his coat upon her, in the company of two-leggeds and reindeer brothers and sisters. Daughter Fire with flames dancing in the centre. The drums sang. Their voices of thunder trembling over the two.
Spirit She sang the shapes of forest, grunts of beasts which gathered, remained. Spirit sang thunder, hummed liked Bee. His coat sank into hers in the dancing light. Not a sight of her face, not a sight of her hands, not a sight of her legs to be seen.
A voice cried out: “Come back! Come back! Return! Return! To the fire light.”
Calling and calling into the night. So deep the honey-ed dark, so deep the great sleep.
Slowly arose the Daughter, the Wife, the Mistress trembling. Looking into the fire, looking into their faces. Shy as a Maid. What had she done, where had she been? Lying on her was Her lover’s dark skin.
Smooth it is, smooth as silk. Dark and bronze, golden mahogany, not old and not young.
That which had been missing, that which had been left was found once more in the dense starry night of full moon light.
Let people believe, let people beware that this is not the first time a woman has wed Bear.
Christiana Aro-Harle 