In my darkest, most indulgent moments, I yearn to birth a great, long-tongued demoness into this world. She would be conceived on an Autumn evening when the veil is so thin her father might well be a twisted horned incubus, and my belly would swell to form star-shaped stretchmarks and spectral symbols that would glow bright red only at the Witching Hour. I would leave my life to become a hooded wanderer, sleeping in wolf dens and protected only by my will to spawn my demon-daughter into being.
She would be born between Litha and Lughnasadh, clawing her way out of my fragile womb and emerging from between my legs bare-breasted and fully grown in the Summer moonlight. She would leave me where I lay then, a bloody heap of bones and after-birth strewn across the forest floor. The world would forget me, and my flesh would feed the pine needles and ravenous birds, but she, my clever demoness, would never be forgotten.
She would take an unassuming name and live in a place sought out by no starlets or wealthy narcissists. She would build her house on a land battered by wet and harsh Winters, where the soil remembers the moans of starving children, and the trees sprung up from the corpses of delusional men screaming for freedom. She would grow her fangs long in that place, blinking her eyes demurely when a traveler passed her on the road, all the while plotting a calculated revenge to be served so cold her wrath would usher in the next ice age.
She would wait, my wise and cunning daughter, until our wounded world was on the brink of oblivion. She would wait until the Witches had worked their magick to exhaustion, until the protesters had written their last sign, and until the monstrous powers-that-be had locked themselves inside golden fallout cages with champagne and freeze-dried cake. She would wait until the world was out of options, and then she would rise.
Her small bones would spiral out in all directions, and her unbeauteous hair would writhe with flaming serpents. Her limbs would grow as long as redwood roots, and the bumps of her vertebrae would be like the rocky foothills of the most ancient mountain range. Her black-mirror eyes would swell to the size of small, obsidian moons and she would swallow the golden cages whole while growling and singing blasphemic hymns. She would be all they had ever feared, and rightfully so. From nation to nation she would leap and swim, temple dancing while striking down the ego-mad with her swinging, pendulous breasts, devouring the compassionless creatures and feeding the hungry mothers with what was left.
Her bloody tirade would not take long. When she was finished, when the technologies of subjugation had all been destroyed along with those who wielded them, my sweet darling of a daughter would curl her immense, warm body into a softer shape. Her skin would become like cooled lava, porous and steaming, and she would drip white mother’s milk from her atrophied nipples where the malnourished could nurse away their hunger and numb their memories of a world ran by the bitter and unfeeling. She would stay just so, still with shallow breath, and they would write stories about their demoness savior who caught the bombs in her teeth.
They would sing songs about my brave-hearted daughter, though no one will remember me, the mother who conjured the dark feminine, the lonely woman who spawned the bloodthirsty Goddess into being, the Witch who was through with praying.
Danielle Dulsky is a long-time activist for wild woman spirituality and the divine feminine’s return. She is the author of Woman Most Wild (coming May 2017 from New World Library). A multi-media artist, yoga teacher and teacher trainer, and energy worker, Danielle is on a mission to inspire women to be fearless...