I throw my head back and howl like a wolf. My breath turns to ice and drops to my feet. My lovely little prince is clinging to my skirts under my heavy bearskin cloak. He is frightened by the noise, but I must keep howling, arms aloft in submission to the will of the gods in taking the old priestess to her final rest. It is the way of this country, and oh, how I have tried to follow it.
Her embalmed, wrapped and dressed body is propped upright for its final journey through the ornate metal gates into the great mausoleum carved into the black rock. Huge icicles hang over the mouth of the cave, like jagged teeth. Everything around it is blindingly white with deep, powdery snow. Despite my furs, I shiver my farewell to the frightening but fair matriarch who brought me here. Now she is dead, a void is sucking me in.
Blue-robed priests return from the recesses of the cave hailing the new High Priestess. Bile squirts into my throat. This friend of my fickle husband will open the void wider and wider. I put my gloved hand into a pan of grain, a symbol of prosperity to throw at her holy feet. I look hard at the seeds. A few have tiny white veins – the withering lace. That’s a dreadful omen for a gift! I throw with hope. She side-steps my spell and stares at me, dead-eyed as a snake.
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The photo shown here is from Ingleborough Cave in The Yorkshire Dales National Park, England.
