The Goddesses’ War
Once
Once there was a story and no one to tell it . . .
That time is over.
I know the story of the Ash Girls and the Goddesses’ War and now I give it to you.
Who am I?
I am the Tree of Air, Tree of Life, Maker of Myth. I am the witness of all doings between both worlds—that of the grandmothers, children, and little black dogs; and that of the goddesses, ancestors, and guardians.
I am the image tattooed from the nape of Ara’s neck to the soles of their feet so that from far away and far below the glittering minerals etched in their skin make them appear like an enchanted tree floating high above the Red Sea.
You could begin the story this way, when you tell it.
Once, all of the goddesses determined to rebalance the worlds, bring an end to all wars before the humans destroyed it all. They were led by Athena, Greek Goddess of Strategy, Wisdom, and War and overseen by Hestia, Greek Goddess of the Hearth and the last deity in touch with the will of the One (also known then as Great Mother, Eurynome, Supreme Creatrix, Papatūānuku, Itbu-moo, Tatei Yurianaka, Haumea, Mattarahkka, Divine Feminine, Mother of Mothers, Gaia, Iahu, Exalted Dove, and many other names). But the goddesses were not unified. Their divergent natures had become problematic, preventing them from finding a way forward.
Hestia possessed a map of sorts. The universe story painted on cards (it was said by the One’s own hand) but the cards had faded, become nearly unreadable, the future meant for us all vanishing with the ink.
Terror of oblivion darkened all hearts.
Hestia implored the One for help.
You might choose to start the story with the answer to that call . . .
Once, a child named Frieda was born to repaint the faded map into a deck of tarot cards that would be published all over the world, finding the ones who could read its secrets. Hope for the Goddesses’ War would be restored. But the choice to accept this path was Frieda’s alone—human will having become so strong that even the goddesses had lost most of their powers to intervene. They did what they could.
Once, where Asia and Africa drifted apart, in a land called Eritrea that lies due north of the strait of Bab el Mandeb, there lived a girl named Asmeret. She was born in the days when two wars converged; one known as World War II—a savage war between conflicting myths—and another war that raged for many years before and after on a much broader field. Rages still.
This other war may never be named as its horrors and victories cannot be compiled by human historians into one thing. It will suffice to call it the Goddesses’ War.
It is a war between chaos and consilience—a war that will be eternally waged and can never be won, but the war between chaos and consilience need not destroy us all.
For now, this is a war filled with terrors: Terror of death and thus terror of life; Terror of others—those from places, with faces, with names we don’t recognize as our own—and thus terror of self. At the heart of terror is forgetting. Forgetting that life and death are the same thing. Forgetting that there was ever only One Name.
Or this . . .
Once, in a village south of London, there lived a girl who asked too many questions. A girl whose mind reached for answers no one could give her. She was chosen, along with three other girls, to lead you out of the terrors into the new story. ReStory war. Her name is Charlotte.
Or you might choose to begin like this . . .
Once, there lived a girl named Asmeret. She woke up on her twentieth birthday and prepared to leap to her death.
Or you might even begin here . . .
“So the goddess AraAthena was once a real piece of work. No wonder since her father, Zeus, King of the Greek gods, conspired with his brothers and sisters (all except Hestia who withdrew in hopes of keeping the family together once the dust settled) to murder their parents, the Titans, which started time (which pretty much stinks for all of us). Oh, and he ate A’Thena’s mother for lunch.”
Something like that.
I am Tree of Air, Tree of Life, Maker of Myth. I tell you this story so you might imagine, if some bit of imagination remains, what the other side of terror might look like and how to fight for it.
Imagine Frieda painted the cards. Imagine Asmeret and Charlotte remembered what they are.
Imagine that listening to this story you remember your part in the Goddesses’ War.
Let’s begin there.
Don’t forget.
Note: this was the original prologue to The Ash Girl. And, indeed, over the years, the story as written has begun in many of these places. The starting place is of no matter. Only that you remember your name and stand, defiantly if necessary, on the mountain of your belonging speaking your truth. Be the One needed now.