Among the Goddesses

Marie Moving, Book 1: Oregon

24 Book 1: Oregon —Searching the shore for the way to the beach, I stumbled on Eve’s small weathered house. Out on the porch where the fog had come rolling past in the morning leaving mist on the railings, she drew charcoal patterns of spirals and bird-wings while her deep-coiled braids gleamed bright in the sun. “Good morning,” I called, past the pile of stained glass, and Brigid, my black dog, bounded up towards her. Eve spoke to her easily, quickly; I saw Brigid’s eyes gleam yellow as she recognized her, and my heart beat faster. Eve invited me in. In green wicker rockers, we talked several hours, while Brigid slept stretched at our feet. And we learned why I had left home, why she had stayed here, how her long-ago story still colored her days, how I hoped to find safety with people again. She laughed with me easily, bracing her foot on a wide, dark-whorled railing, retracing a circle with one wrinkled toe. When she reached for the tea I saw her eyes leapt like quick fish. I felt fire. Her two hands vibrated with so many lines they were conscious with age. They rested free of each other. She had lived here for decades, in four small white rooms, awakened by shore. She asked me to stay. Because no-one had heard me like this yet, I stayed. I rented her spare room—a wide-windowed studio full of high cliffs. The sun tumbled down. Since incest had thrown me from my parents’ house five years before, I hadn’t had a real home, but had travelled from friend to friend, job to short job, without finding someplace I needed to go or someone to live with—somewhere I could learn. ...