I sat down at the bar, placing my tote on the counter with the intention of digging out only my small notepad and pen. The tote slipped, fell over, and all my items spilled out. The bartender and a few other patrons noted the Fey Tarot and a few other tarot decks among the items, but said nothing. I did note one of the patrons blanched and quickly moved, but the others just rolled their eyes and continued on with their conversations.
Restoring my items to my tote, the bartender brought me a fruity scented cocktail. “What’s this?” “Based on what I saw, I thought I’d get started on your drink.”
I wrinkled my face. “Eh… I appreciate the sentiment, but I’d much rather have a beer.” The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Any good ale would do. And by good, I mean not the most marketed. A good beer.”
The bartender laughed and took the fru-fru drink away. She came back with a freshly poured pint of a dark amber ale with a teasing head. “This one’s on me. I shouldn’t have presumed.”
I toasted the bartender for her integrity and drank without pause. Mmm. Good beer is good. I settled down and began writing out my thoughts about the attempted theft of the dream-world version of the wand.
A few people came by to check me out, but I did not look up at their approach. I heard a few groups openly discuss me but did not react. All background noise. As long as I was physically left alone, it did not matter what was said.
“You’re not studying us, are you? We aren’t rats to be inspected!” The woman two stools away slides from stool to stool until she’s next to me. “Take your doctorate thesis and get the fuck out of here!”
“No, not studying y’all at all. Some shit went down and I’m sorting out the whats and the whys. Just sitting here because I’ve found that I’m left alone when sitting at the bar. Usually. I have no interest in what you and yours are doing.”
“Get your straight ass to a Starbucks then! This isn’t the place for thinking!”
“Starbucks doesn’t have beer. And even if they did, I doubt it would be good beer.” I raised my glass and sipped carefully. I noted we had the attention of at least half of the other patrons. The bartender was watching her closely.
“Eh. Heh. Yea. You got a point there. Just don’t start any shit in here! We ain’t girls! We’re women! And we’ll kick your ass if you get out of line!” She thumped the counter causing the bartender to call out the inebriated woman.
Another woman came up to me. She placed her hand on my shoulder. I tensed up immediately at the touch. She withdrew her hand at once but did not apologize. “Feel free to ignore Broomhilda here. She just got dumped and she’s blaming the world for her faults. Again. If anyone gives you a hard time, just tell them you’re with me.”
I looked up at my benefactor in askance. She wore a tight red silk sleeveless top, showing off full tattoo sleeves on her arms. The ink swirled and moved as I watched, portraying scenes in silent brilliance. Her ears had piercings the entire length of the lobe, and the bottom portion was stretched with black plugs. Diamond and ruby studs accented her eyebrows, nose, and lips. Many delicate gold chains draped over her neck and check, hiding the smaller tattoos on the top portion of her breasts. Her hair was dyed to the same scandalous red shade as her lipstick. Her long nails were polished to match.
But it was the bearing in her eyes that kept me from speaking out. Dark brown and steel sharp. She came here to relax, but was not above unleashing her imperial demeanor. I had the sensation I knew her, by a different name, by a different appearance. This Red Woman was a commander, an empress, a ruthless competitor, a force not to be questioned.
“And what is the price of your boon, oh fiercely red woman?” She turned away from ‘Broomhilda’ and fixed me with her stare. A faint smile teased at her lips.
“Price? Why would I demand a price for kindness?”
I was not in the mood for games. I knew her. But I could not place her. She was causing all my internal alarms to sound with jarring klaxons. “Everything has a price.” I spoke soft enough that only she and the ever attentive bartender would hear. I spoke firmly enough that she understood I was not being flippant.
“Yes. It does.” Her smile bloomed and I felt trapped. “A kiss, then. Nothing binding by it. Just lips to lips. None may approach you without my consent. You be on your best behavior, which you are displaying now. Write your notes in peace.”
Seems harmless. “A kiss it is. And nothing more.” The bartender watched as stoic witness as she bent her head down and kissed me on the lips. Her lipstick tasted like bitter apples and sweet… something… Again I was reminded of something important and again I was unable to grasp it completely.
“You do know this is a lesbian bar, right?” She changed the subject as soon as we parted.
I nodded. “If it’s not, then the name needs to be changed. I can’t imagine a bar named ‘Clitopia’ as anything but a lesbian bar! And the bell above the door would have to be changed out as well.”
She laughed and leaned close. Her sticky warm musk surrounded me and reminded me of something… someone… chthonic. “Predator or prey?”
“Sexually? Neither. There may yet be a hunt for one that wronged me, but I am not prepared for it yet.”
She nodded. “Work out what you need. Wolf.” She leaned in close to me again, and sniffed my head with intent. Humming contentedly to herself she told the bartender my tab would be fully paid by her, “without expectation of recompense”.
She went to the booth in the far corner of the bar, and took her regal position among a group of acolytes, dedicates, and petitioners. I nodded at the sudden peace I found myself in, and returned to my idle notes and scribblings.
Another group of women came in. Tittering amongst themselves, they reminded me of high-school cliques that bait others to take the first verbal swing. The subject of their disdain changed often and with great jumps of logic. They complained bitterly about perfume, fashion, food, bisexual women, celebrities, cursing witches, and bloggers. Most of their conversations escaped me. I had to ignore them, or burst out laughing.
“And that Nox bitch is back online! What the fuck?” Oh? The pen paused over the paper. They had my attention fully. “I know, right? Can’t even rage quit properly.” “I heard her curses backfired and she got all that shit back on her own head.” “She can’t curse. Have you read her so-called curses? Bad poetry. I mean. Really. Doesn’t even rhyme and shit.” “Have you read any of her rituals?” “What rituals? She never posted any.” “That’s what I mean. She’s not a real witch. Just some emo chick.” “It’s clear she has no understanding of real power.” “She even posts her craft name. Who uses ‘Weaver’?” “Unoriginal.” “Isn’t the raven her totem?” “Yea, but she doesn’t call it that because Social Justice bullshit.” “Ugh. Them.”
The critiquing bitching was so complete that I forgot I was lucidly dreaming. Given my former habit of camping out in gay bars to have a drink in quiet, being at the lesbian bar was not out of my range of behaviors. I wasn’t upset. I was biting my tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Of all the reasons I have considered quitting posting publicly and being publicly available, children like them have never been in the top one hundred.
My empty glass was swiftly replaced for a new one. The bartender whispered, “To better hide your giggling.”. I just nodded my thanks and used the fresh glass as suggested. In the mirror behind the bartender, I saw the Red Woman watching the gaggle of women with annoyance. She caught my eye in the reflection and I only subtly raised my glass in mirth. Seeing I was not upset, she relaxed some and only watched with amusement.
“And then there’s the Red Queen!” I was an easy target. Low hanging fruit as none knew I was present. But the Red Woman is not a woman in a mid-life crisis. She’s a force to be reckoned with, and her connections are such that she never needs to raise a finger to deal with her enemies. There can be many layers between her and her target if she wants it. Or she can just slice the jugular herself without concern of recrimination.
“Oh Goddess, I know, right!” “Just some old bitch trying to be a cougar.” “Why doesn’t she just accept her crone status and yield to someone better by now?” “Seriously.” “Someone said she’s the Old Ways.” “If you mean Old Ways, you mean just old, then yea.” “She’s not even a mother.” “She can’t, you know. That’s why she’s so bitchy.” “Really? She’s not a complete woman?”
Okay. Now I’m pissed. The glass of beer was almost tipped over in front of me. “Oh, how careless. I didn’t spill anything did I? Would hate to cause a problem.” The bartender’s expert move was the warning I needed to remind me of my place.
“No. I should be more aware of my… surroundings. I apologize.”
“As long as you’re okay, then.”
I took a deep breath. “Yea. I am.” I looked up at the bartender, and then at the reflection of the Red Woman in the mirror. “Thank you.” Watching the tattoos on her skin move in the reflection, I suddenly recognize the scenes they are portraying. In doing so, I also recognize what is the ‘ink’ in her skin.
Or rather… who.
My lucidity returns to me, and with it a deep understanding of just how much shit I could be in if I step out of line. I kissed her. Oh fuck. I kissed the Red Woman.
The gaggle of women are still loudly talking shit about the various cliques in the bar. But the targets of their scorn are glancing at the Red Woman for leadership and guidance. I nurse my beer carefully while waiting for the Red Woman’s move.
One of the her dedicates has had enough of the name-calling, and loudly calls out the gaggle for their words. The eight women jump to their feet, glad to have a more physical target for their scorn. The dedicate obliges by moving to the middle of the floor. But once the gaggle surround the black garbed woman, members of the other cliques spring forward and seize the gabby women.
They are forced to their knees and turned to face the Red Woman. They try to call powers and spirits to come to their aid, but the few that show immediately drop and genuflects to the Red Woman.
The Red Woman sat comfortably on the black cushions. She was writing notes of her own while the gaggle was forced down. Only the bartender moved while she wrote, tending to drinks and glasses. Her note complete, she folded it in half and placed it in the hands of another dedicate who nodded in receipt. Once that dedicate left the bar with the missive in hand, the Red Woman swept her gaze over the still and waiting floor.
“Weaver!” Her voice was a purr of expected checkmate. “Tell us a story.”
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
~sigh~
I downed the beer knowing that it would have little effect on me now. Weaver has been called. Weaver shall attend. I put my notes and gear in the tote which transformed into the satchel as I picked it up. A little shake of my shoulders and the raven-feather cloak settled over my rising body. A smoothing gesture over my afro feathered my head into sleek black feathers. By the time I had slid off the stool and crossed the floor, Weaver Raven-Cloaked stood before the Red Woman.
Before the Red Queen.
Before the Bloodied Queen.
Before the Queen of the Dead.
I knelt in full genuflection before her. The blood of her beloved King continued moving across her skin, telling again the forbidden stories of her descent into death and ascent onto her throne.
“I am Weaver. Weaver Far-Traveled. Weaver Many-Words. Weaver Unbound. Great Queen, you have called me. What story shall I tell for you?”
Her stare kept me kneeling on the floor. She had a point to prove to the gaggle and she was going to use me to plant it deep in their souls.
“Tell us, Weaver. Tell us… of Kore.”
With the speaking of the name, my awareness was pulled into her chthonic embrace and I knew nothing more.