Threads of Ariadne

By Joan Sutcliffe

I am a priestess now in a strange cult. There are not many of us left, but I have taken my final vows, and I wear a green laurel leaf headband and a long robe of white linen. My age is catching up with me, but my life has been long. I have passed through many shapes and forms, through myriads of births and deaths but I now hold the thread of Ariadne, and the key to the dark realms is mine.

We meet still in a moonlit grove deep in the dark forest, all gnarled oaks now and stunted ash, tamarack in abundance and yew trees gone wild. The altar stone remains smooth though weatherworn, gleaming white as ever in the silvery sheen of lunar rays. There’s a niche in the top surface where we burn sage, and the only sacrifice offered to sprites of the ether is the abandonment of a decadent desire, a sensual appetite or an unsavoury thought. 

As the cycles of the years have passed the power of the mythos has waned and waxed and waned again, and many believe the old magic has completely left the world, but I know differently. 

The liquid gold of summer has deserted the fields, as the ungracious Theseus left the weeping Ariadne, sad but not broken, and queen now in the mysteries of Dionysus. The harvest moon of the equinox looms blood red and large on the eastern horizon; the fall tides rise restless predicting the omens written in the stars. Venus is entering the underworld. Neptune is retrograde, as is Uranus also squaring Mars; signifier of tumult, unrest in the world scene, obstacles in personal relationships. It is a time to boldly explore the dark side of one’s nature, to unearth the secret fears and negative qualities of the shadow self.

There are five of us only who remain now to gather together in our sacred circle guarded by the ancient trees. The last slant of sunset falling on the greenness of thick foliage has departed; and the golden rod prolific and radiant in daylight hours is now silent of the bee hum and depleted of its pollen. Yet its languid mossy fragrance lingers in the warmth of the still air as dusk approaches. 

The quiet ambience is disturbed only by the flutter of wings as a bat flies low, then hovers close before taking off, only to return. There are two of them now zigzagging in staggered patterns of flight. They seem to pitch and toss, coming so near that I think they are going to touch me. But instantly they halt right in front of me, remaining almost immobile for a couple of seconds, before taking off and disappearing into the night. Something about the experience calls to mind the long black hair of Ramon and the unusual choreography of Guido’s dance routine; and I remember their hesitation about meeting tonight.

Will they come? From the shamanic perspective, bats have always been a symbol of initiation. In the sacred scriptures of the ancient Maya, the Popul Vuh describes the ordeals of the two brothers who have to pass through the cave of bats, indicating the breaking down of all the habitual securities and comforts, and through intense struggle to come at last into new insights and creative powers. For the unaware, it can mean fear and the loss of certain faculties unless the opportunity for change and new possibilities is recognized. 

The thrill of anticipation tingles my nerve centres as I prepare for our autumn ceremony, serious but always enlightening. The smoky scent of smouldering sage purifies the intent and the splish-splash of falling water sets the mood. As I wait alone I hear the cracking of a twig and a light footstep on the dirt path, but it is not one of my fellow devotees approaching. My eyes catch sight of the white stripe of a skunk scuttling swiftly away into the long grasses. Then a further rustle disturbs the undergrowth as some other night creature passes. 

Suddenly, by some telepathic current there comes the distinct feeling that two of our circle have left us for ever. In my mind’s eye I see as clear as a reflection in a looking glass the crisp magenta pink of foxgloves, the bells open to reveal their speckled tongues. Two small insects creep down into the hearts of two respective flowers. The silken rich colour fades before my vision, exuding an odour of decay. The cups close, and shrivel up into dark indigo wrinkled lumps and then drop to the ground. How speedily beauty and vitality can become extinct! It is an ill-fated omen. I know instinctively that those two souls have passed beyond the veil. 

Now I believe for certain that the others will not come tonight. No matter! My purpose is set. I make my offerings of cedar bark to the airy elements of the east and to the fiery spirits of the south, to the waters of the west and the solid rocky ground of the northern earth. 

The old cast-off snake skin that I covered with small stones during the spring festival, symbolic of new beginnings, is still lying here. The serpent was always associated with wisdom by the ancient traditions. The sage, the magician, the shaman were often depicted as a snake. It is time to take out the dead skin and ponder what remains in the shadow world. 

A strange sound keeps penetrating my hearing, very faintly at first but increasing gradually in volume; and very puzzling as I come to recognize the tone. It’s the sound of a baby crying, though where, and how that can be, is beyond my conception. Meanwhile the wailing continues to grow, gaining in momentum and becoming frantic, reaching peaks of hysteria. Could it be an abandoned infant?

I have no choice but to seek out the cause and offer what help I can. It’s difficult to make out the actual direction from which the cries are coming, but it seems to be through the darkest part of the woods. There is a makeshift path I can follow but it’s very trippy underfoot and the trees encroach on either side and block out the moon shining overhead, making it totally deficient of light.

It feels as though I have been walking for a long time now, and perhaps going round in circles for I have made so many twists and turns and am no nearer the destination. Although I am listening intently the sounds are confusing, sometimes muffled as if wrapped in cotton wool. Sometimes I hear them so clearly that I could swear they are close by. The next minute they appear as an echo, as though traveling over a distance, and then they are somewhere behind me and I feel I should turn around. But that will only lead me farther afield, deeper into the darkness of the forest until I have lost the way entirely. 

My sense of orientation has deserted me now, and I am wandering blindly following an ever changing lead. The sky has clouded over and the vegetation is thicker. My feet are constantly stumbling over long hard twining roots, my legs stinging from patches of nettles and my arms scratched from sharp pointed branches. Suddenly I lose my balance completely and am hurled, half running and half falling, down an uneven slope to land with a squelch in swampy water. Somehow I pull myself out, heavy and wet, my robe muddy and torn, my laurel leaf crown wrenched off my head by overhanging tentacles of a scraggly fir tree.

As I flop onto a grassy bank, my ears are accosted by the croaking of a bull frog answered by a whole chorus of creaks and croaks which crescendo into a horrific batrachian symphony. Now I am questioning the infantile crying. “Was it actually a baby …..or?”

There is an astral quality about my present situation. As I look down into the water, which seems to be flowing like a river, there is a dreamlike sensation. The clouds have cleared away now, and the moon is reflecting its silver light on the wavelets, and suddenly as clear as a crystal ball I know I have been here before. Momentarily the perception of some exquisitely beautiful experience wells up in me and I search frantically to recover the memory. But just as quickly it is gone and I am left with a stark naked fear grabbing hold of me. 

I am alone, more alone than I have ever been: and lost, for I have meandered so, so far from our well-known grove that everything is totally unfamiliar, and the forest is immense. There are tales of hikers being lost for ever in the midst of all the tangles and twists: and tales of hauntings, when fairy voices like the mischievous Puck in “Midsummer Night’s Dream” have engaged in treacherous pranks leading the traveler through a maze of pathways, only to fall at last into a pit of blackness. The fortunate few who have made it out have returned mad as hatters. Victims of insanity, locked away in asylums, they scream in the night and recount dreadful stories of meeting ghastly beings moving like zombies, who shapeshift into gigantic bats which have stolen their spirit.

Terrified I reach for my magic talisman, my golden necklace holding the lovely jade disk with the delicate filigree engraving of the archer aiming his arrow to the stars, my beloved Sagittarius. To my intense horror it is not there. Oh heartache on heartache! It was the last gift of the last hierophant of our circle. Now I know I am truly cursed and will never find my way out of this grotesque maze. A tremendous urge to shriek and tear my hair out in chunks and hammer my fists on the earth consumes me, but there is no one to hear, nor can any hope of rescue be possible.

This excruciating solitude is unbearable. Remembering the initiations of old, I shudder. Trial by water, trial by fire! Peering into the solidity of darkness, I see the outlines of trees as monsters. Bent and contorted like cruel old hags, their branches appear as bony arms with a hundred tentacles shaking their claws at me. Caught at times in a draught of wind, they seem to uncoil snake-like towards me as though to grab hold and stifle the very life out of me. Could this be only the first trial, merely the earthly? If so, I have failed miserably.

But I am too old to care anymore. My friends are dead. I am dying. Every single one of us will die someday. We are all dying from the day we are born. How real are our lives anyway? No more real than phantom images forming patterns in a kaleidoscope! My golden thread is broken, as is my link with the circle. The alchemical secrets we unsealed together have turned to dust. Suddenly, how ridiculous seem all our rituals. How worthless all our efforts! All my most cherished beliefs have now abandoned me. There is nothing, nothing at all, nothing left for me to hold onto, just a gargantuan unforgiving wasteland stretching into an infinity of emptiness. I have no real existence, I never had an existence. There was always just an illusion of myself. 

This is truly the dark night of the soul. Spoken of in whispers by the mystics of all the ancient traditions, it is the dreaded ordeal that all those on a spiritual journey must one day experience. I surrender completely to the dark mystery!

…………………………………………..

Something bright is forcing me to open my eyes. I do not know how long I have been lying here. Maybe days? My body is exceedingly stiff and cold, and it is almost impossible to move. My right arm seems to weigh a ton, and my chest feels constricted as though a heaviness is sitting on top of it. Slowly I am able to sit up, and very cumbersomely I can now lift myself to stand on my feet.

The sun is rising, more splendid than I have ever seen it prior to this moment. Vermilion red it appears above the treetops surrounded by a stunning mantle of orange light spreading across the bluey grey of the dawn sky. My heart is overflowing with a poignant tenderness and I have never previously experienced such happiness. Whether I am alive or dead, I do not know, or whether I am a ghost that will forever roam the forest? It does not matter anymore. In this moment I have discovered the real thread of Ariadne.


Bio

Originally from Yorkshire, growing up in the untamed countryside of the Bronte's where she enjoyed the romantic literature of that period, particularly that which gave voice to the restless spirit seeking the mysteries of its own source. This led her into the field of eastern philosophy and mysticism, and for many years she has been a keen student of Theosophy, as introduced to the West by H.P. Blavatsky.