Sanctuary

The autumn chill permeated Ruth’s wool coat as she hurried through the forest, dried leaves crunching underfoot. She clutched her satchel laden with contraband. If her parents found these candles, herbs, oils, and feathers plucked from her pillows, they’d demand answers she couldn’t yet give.

Soon the sheltering arms of the old willow appeared through the trees. Beneath its curtain of tendrils, Orli waited, tracing the perimeter with her feet under the waking moon. Her hair was wild in the wind, eyes bright with anticipation. “You came,”  Orli whispered, taking Ruth’s cold hands in her warm grasp.

Ruth’s face flushed, as she always did at Orli’s touch. Her dreams these past months had been filled with images she didn’t dare examine by daylight—of clasping Orli’s slender hand, resting her head upon her shoulder, pressing her body close until all borders between them blurred.

Orli took Ruth’s satchel, withdrew the oil, candles, matches, and herbs. “Tonight, we complete the ritual of renewal,” she said. They entered the willow’s hallowed shelter, the green swaying gently in the breeze. As they stepped inside, the wind outside seemed to fade. Stillness. Ruth found anchorage in Orli’s dark eyes.

Reverently, Orli scraped arcane symbols on the ground, cast a circle of salt, and lit herbs that filled the grove with earthy incense. Ruth’s pulse quickened as Orli took her hands. Together, they chanted the prayer Orli had taught her: “Mother Moon, grant us wisdom so that we may shed false skins.”

As the chant slowed, their voices twined until Ruth could not tell where hers ended and Orli’s began. Ruth met Orli’s eyes, luminous pools in the candlelight. A bittersweet ache grew in her chest as she yearned for the impossible—to create life from Orli’s flesh, to mother children woven of only them. She wanted to lay bare the caterwauling of the moon above, to reshape the fabric of her world.

“Now, we consecrate,” Orli finally whispered. Ruth froze, then softened, then shivered as Orli traced oil down her arm, her breath catching at the nape of her neck.

Ruth’s desire overtuned. She returned each caress, skin prickling, praying the ancestors Orli invoked could not see into her thrumming heart. Orli traced Ruth’s hips nine times to unbind as Ruth stroked her shoulders seven times to sanctify.

Where you walk, I would walk, Ruth thought to herself, setting a new prayer, hoping the ancestors could hear. Your people will be my people, your home my home.

Their bodies spilled salt and nectar, with tongue and teeth they exhumed their ways. The trees creaked and groaned as they called out under the moon’s watchful eye. They became conduits for crones turned to ash, chanting to release their buried words. Their braided fingers intertwined at last in the dancing firelight. They kissed with wild abandon, removing shame and garments alike.

At dawn, the salt dissolved, and the wind stilled. The last herbs burned to embers. Orli leaned her forehead against Ruth’s, sweat trickling down. “The old selves are shed,” she whispered. “We can now live as we were meant to.”

They emerged naked in truth. Stepping into light, Ruth hid no more in shadow. Together, they walked and faced skyward.