The 

Birth-rite

by

Draidean Pethboc

			

				
Chapter 1

The same hour was the thing fulfilled upon Nebuchadnezzar: and he was driven from men, and did eat grass as oxen, and his body was wet with the dew of heaven, till his hairs were grown like eagles' feathers, and his nails like birds' claws. 
				Daniel 4:33 

From the journal of
Lawrence Gill
May 8

   I should begin by admitting that I have a somewhat antagonistic attitude toward writing this journal. It is not the product of my own initiative, but rather an exercise carried out at the suggestion of my psychiatrist, Dr. Geneva Haas. Dr. Haas has undoubtedly done more to help me than any other doctor I have seen. I should mention that I am diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. I am also a recovering alcoholic.  
   Dr. Haas suggested that in this first entry I give a short biography, or at least an introduction, of myself (should posterity ever require it-HA!), so I will try to do so now.
   I was born in Franklin, Indiana on October 1, 1973. Back then, Franklin was a small college and farm town. There were barely 11,000 people there back in those days. My father, James Corbin (J.C.) Gill, worked for a local realtor named Mitchell, an Englishman who had come to the United States after WWII and made a killing in real estate. I can’t count the times I would stop by the offices of Joel Mitchell and Assoc. to tell my Dad about my day. He had a shabby little cubical in the otherwise beautiful office, rich with warm dark wood tones and brass embellishments. Dad always reminded me a bit of Bob Cratchit, toiling away over papers and numbers in his tiny workspace, and never complaining about this lot in life or Mr. Mitchell’s ill treatment of him. Dad was the only soul in the office that wasn’t related to Mr. Mitchell in one way or another, and undoubtedly worked harder than anyone there to see that the Mitchell family remained wealthy. 
   Many times Dad and I would walk home together from the office. We had a family car, but since we lived so close to Dad’s work, we would often take advantage of the weather from Spring through Autumn. It was during these times he would take great pleasure in telling me stories of his own childhood in the Appalachian mountains-a place that seemed to me to be as wild and free as any place I had ever read about. He knew stories about our ancestors going back for centuries, from the Celtic traditions they followed in Great Britain to their “mountain magic” and superstitions practiced in the Appalachians.
   My mother was-and is-quite different from my father. She approaches homemaking nearly like a religion. Her demeanor is quiet and less friendly toward those outside the family. Although not a curmudgeon by any stretch of the imagination, she seems to carry an air of suspicion toward those she knows only casually. She had been raised an only child, and her and her mother, Gwenn Conliffe-Andrews, had immigrated to the United States from Wales in 1944. I have heard my mother speak of her parents only a few times. Apparently, her father had been a games keeper on a large estate in Wales. Her mother had inherited an antique shop there, but both her husband and father died the same year. After consolidating her debts, Gwenn left Wales for the United States with her two-year-old daughter Theresa (my mother) in tow. My mother rarely speaks of her childhood. It seems to me as if the detailed story of her life begins with meeting my father at Indiana State University.
   Ah, but this entry is supposed to be about me, isn’t it? I can hear Dr. Haas, in her thick German accent, saying, “There you go, taking the focus off of yourself . . . again!”
   So, back to it. I grew up, an only child myself, without notable event. At 14 I fell in with “the wrong crowd.” It was at this time that I began drinking, and started out on a journey both exciting and terrifying. I had been given to auditory and visual hallucinations since age 12. My parents took me to doctor after doctor, tried medicine after medicine, until finally I found myself making occasional hospital stays. 
   I find myself becoming depressed just from the act of writing about it. I would much rather write about the events that are going on in my life today. That’s what this journal is really supposed to be about. I wonder if Dr. Haas would be disappointed in me if I just offered a brief thumbnail sketch of the uglier 
parts of my history now, and offered specific details a little at a time as this journal grows. At any rate, it’s 3:42 a.m. and I don’t have much more in me than that anyway.
   Suffice it to say that from the age of 14 to just four short years ago I lived in a nightmare of alcoholism, mental and emotional disorder, jails, hospitals, a failed marriage, several failed college and art school attempts and more.
    I came here to Toledo, Ohio five years ago to pursue my schooling and work as an artist, but my maladies continued to sabotage all I undertook. Then four years ago, after a three-month drinking binge, I found myself in the psychiatric ward of St. Vincent Hospital. It was here that I was introduced to Geneva Haas. Through her help I was able to spend one year in a half-way house, leading to my sobriety. She also found, through much trial and error, a combination of medications that have set my mind at a better functioning; much better than I remember it ever being before.
   Surely the subsequent entries in this damn journal will not be as draining. Remembering and writing of how I came to be in this state that I am in, coupled with the fact that I consider myself to be among the worst of writers, have left me with a headache and much anxiety. I must return to this at another time. I feel completely spent. 

From the journal of
Lawrence Gill
May 10

   I had an appointment with Dr. Haas this morning. It went well, I suppose. I told her about the anxiety I had felt while briefly writing about my past in my first journal entry. She assured me that this was normal. I also told her that I have been experiencing mild auditory hallucinations this past week-mostly just musical sounds when I would lay down to sleep. She increased my Seroquel by 200 mg. She also praised me for having started this journal. Although I brought it with me to the appointment, she did not ask to see it. 
   Visiting Dr. Haas seems more like visiting a friend than keeping a psychiatric appointment. Most psychiatrists simply write your prescriptions, ask if you’re having any side-effects, and send you on your way. However, Dr. Haas had always put herself in the middle of my life-laughing and rejoicing with me over my triumphs, and bending a sympathetic ear to my failures and sorrows. Also, she has never been judgmental of my spiritual beliefs. This was not an easy city for a pagan to live in.
   Which reminds me-tomorrow is the full moon and some of us will be holding an Esbat. I don’t actually belong to a grove or coven, as I have always preferred to work as a solitary. Since I don’t subscribe to any certain denomination, discipline or sect of paganism, it is easier for me to work alone. However, the group that I often celebrate Esbat (full-moon) rites with is very eclectic, and many different disciplines are represented. The meetings are always interesting and informative, and the rites and rituals are always beautiful and spiritually fulfilling. These meetings also afford me the opportunity to see Mina, a Wiccan lady who appears to be of my age. Although we know very little of each other, we do seem to thrive in each others presence. Or is that just wishful thinking on my part? 
   Mina is a beautiful woman, with blonde hair that just passes her shoulders. Her figure is of the type that I have always found most attractive-not “heroin chic”-but slender at the waist with just the right amount of extra flesh around her bottom and medium sized breasts. She is a classic beauty, much resembling Lord Frederic Leighton’s 1868 painting, “Actaea, The Nymph of The Shore,” with the exception that Mina has slightly longer hair and is a much lighter blonde. 
   Mina always comes to me and engages in lively conversation, and the exchange often becomes a bit flirtatious, if only playfully so. I am painfully shy in the presence of a beautiful woman, but Mina always manages to break through that. She sets me so at ease, and yet when I leave her presence, I usually find 
myself a mass of self-doubt-“I should have said this, I shouldn’t have said that,” etc.
   Many pagans take on a new name with their faith. Mina is no exception. She has chosen the name “Breed”(pronounced “breed”), which is a variant spelling of the goddess Brighid. Two of the better small articles I have on this goddess are as follows -	

Brighid ~ Daughter of The Dagda, patroness of Druids and Bards, Goddess of healing, smith craft, 
music, and poetry. She is the patroness of all artists, craftsmen, and stock animals. Her symbol is the 
pure white bull. The horns are said to represent the physical portal of the human female thru which 
Childbirth takes place, as well as a portal of spiritual rebirth. It is believed by some that Brigid used 
to be known as The Great Goddess, female creator, and All-Mother. She is known today in many 
forms, such as Saint Brighid, or Saint Bride of Kildare. Kildare in Gaelic "Cill Dara" meaning Church 
of the Oak. Saint Bride according to legend (patroness of child-birth) was said to have been the 
midwife to the Virgin Mary. Fire is sacred to this Goddess, and to this day in Kildare perpetual 
flames are tended in her honor. Like the flame that is sacred to her, she is the spark of knowledge in 
smith work and metalworking. From her flame of inspiration came legends, poetry, and music to the 
Bards
__________________________________________________________________________________________
CELTIC MYTHOLOGY - BRIGHID

 We now take a look at our Lady 'Brighid bhoidheach', Bride the beautiful. Brighid, or Bride, is the tutelary goddess of the Gaelic peoples of the Western Isles, where she is still well loved and worshiped under the guise of the Christian Saint Bride. Indeed, the Hebridean Isles themselves take their very name from this ancient deity. On her festival day, am Fheille Bride, on the first of February, she gives to us the promise of Spring, the promise of new life returning to the Earth. Hence she is often known as 'Brighid of the Green Mantle'. This goddess of hearth and flame so beloved of the Gaels is known by many different names, for her Mysteries are many. She is the 'Lady of the Shores', for the shore is one of those magical in-between places that so fascinated the Celts. These in-between places such as shorelines, fords, doorways and so on, were neither one state nor the other. The shore is neither dry land, nor is it the sea, yet it is the meeting place of both. If we consider that the land represents our solid, material world, while the sea represents the Great Cosmic womb of all life, the intuitive side of our nature, we can see that the shore is a meeting place between one world and another. Brighid is also known as the 'Two-Faced One'. In the legends she is described as having one side of her face black and ugly, and the other white and beautiful. The Mystery of Bride is to be found in the annual transformation of the cailleach, the hag of winter, into the fair maiden of Spring. Brighid is the goddess of all arts and crafts, and as such she is the feminine principle of the Ildanach, the counterpart of Lugh Lamhfada. She represents the potential of all women for she is the eternal flame that burns in the heart and hearth of every woman of the Gael, 'moon-crowned Brighid of the undying flame'. This principle of the undying flame continued even after the coming of Christianity into Ireland. At the fifth century sanctuary of St. Bride of Kildare, the sacred fire within was attended by her devoted maidens and was never allowed to go out. The name of this goddess originates from the Gaelic words Breo-Saighit, which means Fiery Arrow. The arrows of Brighid have many attributes. As goddess of bards, smiths and physicians she is the flame of poetical inspiration and of healing, and the fire of the divine forge. Finally, as the Good Shepherdess who watches over her flock, 
Brighid presides over the cradle of the new born infant. It is a common practice for the women of the Isles to hang rowan crosses over their cradles whilst reciting a charm or prayer to Brighid to invoke her protection. Yes, Brighid is still loved and revered by the Gaelic peoples of Scotland and Ireland. Long may it continue. 
________________________________________________________________________________________

  At any rate, I am excited at the prospect of seeing her tomorrow. I suppose since I am on the subject, I should reveal the name that I have taken. I am known as Pollux, a name I came by in my research of Greek mythology. Pollux was the son of Zeus and a twin brother to Castor, whose father was King Tyndareus of Sparta. They were born at the same time to Leda.  They were both great warriors, and their stars can be seen in the constellation Gemini, where Zeus put them together forever, as Castor was mortal from a mortal father, and Pollux was immortal.

From the “NOTES” section of
Lawrence Gill’s file
(as recorded by Geneva Haas)

Pt. lucid and in good spirits today. He did complain of hearing “music” when he tries to sleep. I increased  his Seroquel by 200 mg. Pt. Reports that his home life is going well. Pt. still living alone and functioning well. He
has started keeping a journal as I suggested-reports that he finds it difficult towrite about his past when still actively drinking and refusing treatment. I will see Pt. again in two weeks.                                                                                                                           

From the journal of
Lawrence Gill
May 11-12
May 10

   It’s nearly midnight, but I just had to write about the Esbat tonight. I was a bit apprehensive about going. My legs and back were in some significant pain-the result of so many drunken falls and one disabling car wreck that happened some years ago. There are days I can barely walk without my cane, an old curled handled heirloom that belonged to my grandfather and given to me by my father after my last back surgery. I didn’t need the old wooden relic every day, but I needed it tonight. It bruises my vanity to have to carry it, but especially so tonight when I knew I’d be seeing Mina. But, it was the cane, or no Esbat. I 
caught the number 19 bus and got off near the home where the Esbat would be held. 
   The meeting took place in the home of a woman I know only as “Tia.” She owns a pagan book store and 
curiosity shop on Monroe St., a few blocks from my apartment. Tia is a wonderful old crone and Wiccan priestess, with a delightful east-European accent.  She has long blonde and grey hair, and quite beautiful for a woman of her maturity, the exact year of which I have never been able to determine.
   As I walked up the sidewalk to Tia’s home, I was greeted by Mina and two of her friends, who were all standing on the open front porch.
   “Merry Meet, Brother Pollux,” Mina smiled.
   “Merry Meet,” I replied, as my mouth went dry. I fidgeted with my cane as I wished I could make it disappear.
   Mina must have sensed my discomfort. “Well, look at you all distinguished looking, and with a cane, no less.”
  My Spirits brightened considerably. I walked around the porch, hugging the people I knew and introducing myself to the few who were not familiar. As I made my way through the front screen door, Mina and her companions fell behind. I repeated my salutations and affections to the small group gathered in the front room. 
  “Where’s Tia?” I asked.
   A man wearing an old worn out Led Zeppelin T-shirt answered, “She’s in the kitchen putting the food together. Go on in and say Hi.” I moved toward the kitchen as the smell of rich meats and fresh vegetables sent my stomach growling immediately. Tia stood with four other women near the sink, her left hand filled with what I suppose were radish leaves. When she saw me, she hugged me right away.
   “Oh, you poor man, is your back acting up again?” she asked.
   “Yeah, a little. Legs, too.”
   “Have you been using the poultice I made for you?” Tia asked.
   “I have, but I ran out last week,” I replied. The poultice she had made for me had indeed worked very well, but it was so foul smelling that it was nearly useless in public settings.
   “I can get another jar ready for you by tomorrow,” she said. “Come by the shop around three o’clock.”
   “I will . . .  and thank you, Tia,” I said. I kissed her on the forehead, helped myself to a soda from the ice chest sitting on the kitchen island, and tried to inconspicuously work my way back out to the front porch. Something told me it was imperative that I remain in Mina’s orbit tonight. I had no more found her when Tia announced for everyone to meet in the back yard.
   Once everyone was congregated, Tia and some of the Elders prepared for the evening’s rituals. I won’t record the complexities of ritual here, but we took part in a few Springtime rituals and heard some healing requests (including my own). Through much of the night we held hands in the Sacred Circle, and for the first time I found myself holding hands with Mina. Her hand felt so soft and warm in my own. It seemed so small, nearly like a child’s hand. Again I felt my mouth and throat go completely dry. My tongue felt like a thick dry branch. My heart speeded up and my breath became quick. This was ridiculous! How could this tiny woman, who resembled a ballerina figurine in a musical jewelry box, bring a 6' 4" 200+ lb. man so near to the point of hyperventilation?  I was in Heaven and in misery-all at the same time. 
   As we closed in the normal fashion, it entered my mind what the neighborhood must think of us, with torches all about, standing in a circle. Part of the group was even wearing ritual robes. So many people in the general population still believe that neo-pagans participated in sacrifice and other such nonsense. If they could only realize how benevolent our purpose is, and what reverence we hold for all life. Some of us are vegetarian due to this reverence. I wish they could be as understanding of our spiritual beliefs as most of us try to be of theirs.
   After the closing of the circle, we sat down to feast. I purposely sat as far away from Mina as I could, believing that I had been conspicuous enough for one evening. We all ate and talked for some time. As the crowd began to thin out, I went to Tia and thanked her for such a wonderful evening. She reminded me to come by the shop tomorrow at 3 o’clock.  As I exited the back yard through the gate, I stopped at the red 
bucket of money there and contributed ten dollars toward the festivities. I walked through the side yard to the front sidewalk, only to find Mina and her friends near her car, preparing to leave. She walked up to me 
alone.
   “Need a ride home?” she asked.
   “Uh . . . no thanks. I have some soreness and that big meal to walk off,” I babbled like an idiot.
   “Well,” she said, “I was wondering if you would like to have supper with me tomorrow night. Besides, I have something I want to give you.” It was at that moment that I felt my heart fall into my ass-and for just a brief moment-I thought I was going to die.
   “I . . . uh . . . I mean . . . I’d love to,” I stuttered.
   “Hang on a sec,” she said. She walked quickly to her car and sat sideways in the seat. I could see that she was writing something. My mind scrambled for something to say when she returned. I had nothing. She returned with a small piece of notebook paper.
   “Here’s my address and phone number. I like to eat late. Is nine o’clock O.K.? I’m really not much of a day person,” she said.
   “Nine o’clock . . . great,” I replied, my throat on fire.
   “It’s a date, then,” she said as she winked. As she started toward her car, she doubled back and asked,
   “Hey, what should I call you outside of the circle, Larry or Pollux?” I opened my mouth, but only something resembling a croak came out.
   “I know . . . I can call you anything I want-except . . .she started.
   . . . late for supper,” I finished, feeling more a buffoon than ever before. As I watched her drive away, I was finally able to exhale.
   I walked part of the way home, but ended up catching the number 19 again. My back and legs were throbbing.
   I seriously doubt that sleep will come easy tonight, but I suppose I should try. I will have more to write later, of that I am sure.

e-mail from Mina to undisclosed recipient

May 12   12:35 a.m.
I saw our friend tonight. I find his shyness with me flattering, and his general sweetness refreshing. He is to meet me tomorrow night. I think it best we have supper here in my apartment. He’ll be nervous enough as it is. I will give him the cane then. I don’t expect much resistance. After all, it is his destiny, isn’t it? But, more than that, it is his birthright. Besides, he will be receiving it as a gift from me. No, I don’t expect much resistance at all. He is using a cane to get around much of the time, anyway. It will appear to be the most thoughtful of gifts. I implore you to leave him under my watch from now on. He will be most easy for me to control, and I expect to derive much pleasure from him as my plaything.
I wonder, if when all is said and done, our friend will thank us? These things are always hard to predict. Still, I can’t wait to see his face when he finally comes to realize that he will never be in pain again, and will live forever.