Yule, and a thin crust of ice brushes the pines, shimmering like faerie dust under the mid- morning sun, adding a holiday touch to this Sabbat. Eleven weeks old but tiny for his age, Re became enchanted with his tail last week, chasing it in frantic circles. Today, he races into the kitchen and chases his tail next to the water bowl. Before Savannah can stop him, he whirls toward it and crashes, landing on his back in the middle of the bowl, water splashed across the floor for the second time this morning. “Oh, no,” Savannah groans, scolding him. “Not again!” She swats at Re, who scampers over to Thoth, biting and slapping the Maine Coon’s bushy tail as if it were his own. “You’re definitely my water baby this month,” she says, wiping up Re’s mess. When she refills the bowl, he runs over and laps loudly. “I had forgotten how much water kittens drink every day,” Savannah mutters to herself, as she puts the paper towel roll back in the cabinet, safe from Horus, who loves to shred paper and can chew through a roll of paper towels in minutes. Bored with Thoth, Re runs to Savannah’s garden shoes piled by the door. He flips a toy in one shoe, stands up on his back legs, waves his paws over his head, and dives into the shoe to retrieve the toy. He repeats this procedure for ten minutes until he falls into a deep sleep, his head resting against the soft pillow of Thoth’s bushy tail. As peaceful as he seems Savannah knows he will jump up in a minute, bristling with energy, hop into the plastic bag lying next to Thoth, and slide across the vinyl floor, chasing his tail once again. After lunch Savannah drags the big Yule box out of the closet in the foyer, and begins decorating her house to celebrate the Winter Solstice. She hangs a holly wreath garnished with mistletoe on the front door. But when Savannah pulls her Yule tree from the box Re hops in. “No!” she shouts, quickly lifting him out, extracting an ornament from his mouth. She places him on the sofa with Horus and Thoth. “Sit,” she says, and lays the plastic bag next to him, which he immediately jumps into and begins chasing his tail, while Horus and Thoth slap at him whenever he whirls their way. With the cats adequately distracted, Savannah positions the Yule tree in the center of the dining room table. Two feet high and constructed entirely of wire and purple fabric, the traditional color for this Sabbat, it glimmers with sequins and tinsel, as she sets a replica of Bast on top and hangs ornaments cross-stitched with Rune symbols and faeries on its branches. Beneath the tree she spreads a lavender silk scarf, on which she scatters cards and wrapped Yule gifts. Next to these she sets a glass jar filled with the herbs, spices, and greenery used to celebrate this ancient holiday: nutmeg, dried holly leaves, cloves, rosemary, bay leaves, cedar shavings. Savannah stands back to survey her handiwork, excited to be celebrating Yule this year in South Carolina, her disastrous marriage and pain- ful divorce a fading memory from another county and state. Tomorrow Ravena throws her annual Winter Solstice party, always the first Saturday night after Yule. Instead of merely hearing about it in an email, Savannah will be attending for the first time. She looks forward to seeing Ravena’s Yule log burning in a cauldron in the fireplace, while everyone sips warm cider and a Celtic CD softly chants ancient holiday tunes in the background. Mirabella and her husband Reese will be there, the table spread with an assortment of organic goodies from his health food store. Several other Pagans and Wiccans will attend, including Mirabella’s best friend Nadine and her husband Embree. Smiling at these cheerful thoughts, Savannah closes the empty box and slides it back into the closet. She lights two lilac candles from her altar and sets them on the table next to the tree. Lifting her wand, she draws a magick circle, inviting the Watchtowers and faeries to her ritual. Then she blesses the tree with a Yule spell: “Beloved Bast, Great Goddess of Cats, charm this tree with your feline magick. Bless this Yule season with sincerity. My heart belongs to you, so mote it be.” Beneath the tree, cards and gifts from Pagan friends confirm her blessing spell, each handmade as a sincere expression of love and friendship. She wonders what they gave her this year, glancing at a few of the oddly- shaped packages. Last year she sewed magickal wallets for everyone, and noticed the other night at Miki’s restaurant Ravena still uses hers. This year Savannah crocheted pink and purple angora scarves for gifts. “Guess I’ll have to wait until after my Yule celebration tonight to discover the treasures hiding in these packages,” she says to Horus and Thoth, still lounging patiently on the sofa. Preparations for the hearty vegetarian stew she plans to cook for the holiday Yule dinner begin to occupy her thoughts. But when she places her wand on its moonstone stand at the altar Re suddenly explodes from the plastic bag, racing for the table and the tree. Savannah catches him as he tries to pull himself up on a chair next to the table. “Oh, no, you don’t!” she exclaims, laughing at his persistence, cradling the wiggling kitten in her arms. Setting him on the floor, she moves all the chairs away from the table. “Good thing you’re too tiny to jump that high this year,” she cautions. “This tree isn’t a kitty toy.” She winks at him. “It’s just for me.” Before dinner Savannah gives Re his monthly flea bath. After drying him thoroughly, she treats him to a spoonful of plain yogurt, which he greedily laps up, smacking his pink lips. When he finishes, a bit of yogurt sits on the tip of his nose like a snowflake. Savannah laughs and wipes it off with a damp paper towel, while he squeals in protest, thinking she intends to give him another bath. “You have quite a yell for a little kitten,” she says, tossing the paper towel in the trash. “Especially when you’re hungry, which would be anytime you’re awake.” Re ignores her and scurries into the living room to the kitty condo, where he has hidden several of Ravena’s catnip mice. As she watches him attack the toys and the carpeted condo, hopping around on his back paws, spitting at everything, she thinks about how she’s grown to adore this kitten. Now she can’t imagine a day without him and his silly antics. A surprising thought, as she hasn’t allowed herself to love deeply since the divorce. But with Re, love crept up on her and simply happened. Watching him perform his spastic gymnastics, she yields to the sudden waves of love flooding her mind, and she wonders what it would be like to live totally guided by divine Love, the kind of mystical life Ravena talks about sometimes. “Finally, I understand what she means,” Savannah muses, watching Re zoom from one level of the condo to the next like a crazed monkey. “Love must become the compass I consult and follow each minute of the day, no matter where it leads me.” She wonders if she possesses the courage to live this way. Like most children from dysfunctional families, she grew up in fear. Then, as an adult, she survived an abusive marriage, once again tormented by someone consumed with control. “It is so nice to be in charge of my life again,” Savannah sighs. “Yet Ravena says a magickal life of Love demands total surrender.” She puts her hands on her slim hips and shakes her head. “Truly, a confusing task, if you ask me.” Re trudges over to Savannah and collapses on her foot, exhausted. “I don’t know if I can do it,” she says. “What do you think, Re?” She bends over and runs her fingers down his back, gently brushing his fur, while he purrs loudly, gazing at her with sleepy eyes. “Okay,” she agrees. “I’ll try.”
(C)opyright 2007 Laura Stamps All Rights Reserved
BIO: Laura Stamps is an award-winning poet and novelist. Over seven hundred of her poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies worldwide. Winner of the "Muses Prize Best Poet of the Year 2005" and the recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and seven Pushcart Award nominations, she is the author of more than thirty books and chapbooks of poetry and fiction. Recent books include "The Year of the Cat: New Poems" (Artemesia Publishing, 2005) and "White Witch: A Novel in Verse" (Kittyfeather Press, 2006). More information about books by Laura Stamps can be found at www.kittyfeatherpress.blogspot.com. A Wiccan, she has been involved in feral cat rescue for many years and currently cares for four housecats and a feral colony of nine cats.Send us your comments on this article
