Creatrix

by Bee Smith

The Cailleach collected stones in her apron, tidying up after all the messiness of Chaos.

She put her back into it, making a land mass until finally, the Quarrywoman took a rest. All that order out of mess.

And it was good.

A maiden clambered up to her winter nest. Ma, she said, your time is coming to an end.

Old woman, give me your blessing to bring a gentleness to the land, for moss to soften the stone, for springs to leap and kiss thirsty lips.

The Cailleach huffed and puffed a freezing blast. She liked the cold. She liked her quiet stones. She liked being alone. She did not want to let go. No, she wouldn’t. No, she couldn't leave it all well alone. 

Ma, said the Maid, everything ends so something can begin. You need to leave now.

Let me grow as strong and tall and old as you until one day another maid comes to claim me. Your work is done. You did well.

Something softened, warmed inside the Cailleach, uncurling like a snake. She shed her skin before sliding under her favourite stone where she could be quiet and alone. Where she could rest and wait.

There would be a call again for a Mighty Woman, strong enough to make a world out in the cold. Who might tut and grumble over Chaos’ mess, clearing the rubble, giving it some structure. To make a world over and over, again and again. 

🜁🜄🜂🜃

Bee Smith (she/her) writes and facilitates creative writers as Word Alchemy in West Cavan, Republic of Ireland. Poetry and short fiction has been published in the UK and Ireland.