myth for jimbu

I emerge from stone.

Before I realize they’re my own closed eyelids, I am in limitless darkness. I would swear I am not human. I am not alive. I am nothing. Then, I realize I only was nothing as I twist from the granite dense sleep that holds me. The stone is replaced with a wetness. There must have been a sound that brought me back here because otherwise I would have remained asleep until I did, in fact, die. I would not have known the difference.

My body stirs, my legs, my belly wind, I press my face like an infant into whatever bed I am on. It is not stone. My resting place is soft. A light as thin as a white road extends above me. And I am in a pit below it.

I remember now the light road is the crescent moon, slowly growing back. I spent a month harvesting the bracts of the moon. I recall the wooden cart I pushed down here. The face of the serpent came to me at once, the incisive tongue, and then the clean mouth opened and consumed the fleshy bracts.

I was so tired. I could not keep my eyes open. I must have fallen asleep while the serpent digested. Where is the serpent now? I rise.

The pit is made of some sort of dust. We are not on earth but high above. A pit in the sky that stands like a pedestal for the moon, like the base of a flower: a hollow stalk.

I perceive the hag of the moon at the base of the crescent dancing.

“Has she been doing this her whole life? Being the hag of the moon?” I wonder. From below I can see her wrinkles are breaking open, and from them fly tiny seeds on airless space. She's pushing them away from her and laughing.

A knife is tucked into my dress. My grandmother gave me the knife. I know I am here for a reason. This knife is telling me as much. But my mind feels heavy and I can’t remember my mission. I don't know why my grandmother gave it to me. She doesn't even live here.

“I am here for a reason,” I keep thinking. But the reason does not make itself known. I want to sleep again but I scramble out of the pit to reach the dancing hag. She will tell me why I am here. The base of the moon is sweating, and she is so far away, and the side is too slick to climb. I lean on it. instead, looking down at the earth.

"I'm here because of my town” - I salvage. “It is beautiful there. Well, no, it's not, but did I leave because it was ugly? Why am I here?

I like it on the moon. I think I should stay here. Maybe I could be a hag of the moon. Or maybe it would be better to go home. I'm not very neat. I would probably make it a bigger mess than it already is.”

On second thought, I think it's time to go home because I can't remember what I am doing. My thoughts are so simple and disconnected I feel ill.

Over the edge of this pit of space snow lined mountains stand far below me. Roots, hang down and lace into the land there.

The moon begins to float away as the seeds that have been swirling, take root again in its soft ground.

“What am I supposed to do?” I call out to the hag who looks down at me confused.

“You have too many questions. Eat your questions. Eat them whole. The serpent will make your path.” I let myself fall back down into that dusty basin. I am certain no one but the serpent and I should be here, but a purple umbel sways by my feet. It smells like the shock of spring rain, this flower's roots must be the one I saw hang down from the top of the pit.

Despite myself, I know if I keep this flower in my sight, I will find the strength I need. I draw a line around it with my arm. It is not long before the serpent emerges from the shadows weeping.

I know what to ask first.

“Why are you crying?”

“My shadow has been taken.”