Chapter 18: The truth revealed

Helen stared at the leather pouch that was hanging from the branches of the tree in her garden. It was tiny, but perfectly and skilfully stitched and crafted. She couldn’t really imagine how it had got there, but she lifted it down, feeling its power in her hand, despite how small it was. Unbidden, her hand brought the pouch to her lips to bless it with a kiss, and the smell reminded her of the sacred earth and of darkness. She opened the pouch, finding within it a small acorn-like seed covered in intricate carvings. 

Helen took the seed inside, and examined the carvings with an old magnifying glass. 

To her amazement, she realised that each of the diminutive markings was a letter. Each letter formed part of a word, and each word was part of a line of poetry. She began to recite the verse and, within her head, there was an explosion of sound, as Wounded Child and Leana joined her. 

The power is within me 

The power is mine. 

The power is in me 

It’s there to be mined. 

The power is within me 

Not the power of the mind 

The Power of the Feminine 

A Force of a Kind. 

Not the kind that recommends filial piety, 

More akin to a female deity. 

It’s not like a film script, 

Where it all falls into place 

It daunts, and it challenges 

It gets in your face. 

It’s the Power that is needed, 

The Power that is felt, 

It’s a Power to be heeded, 

To heal and to feel. 

It’s a Force and a Power, 

And it is real. 

It’s angry! 

It’s forceful! 

It knows what it wants! 

I won’t use it to hurt you, 

But to heal you 

And grow you 

To show you, to know you 

It’s my power, 

I know it! 

My yin for your yang 

I won’t use mine to hurt you 

But to righten a wrong 

Not to whiten, but brighten and shine the light on 

The crimes of the past that still go on 

“Plant the seed!” urged Wounded Child when they had finished reciting the poem. “Plant the seed now, and watch it grow!” 

Helen held the seed in her hand. It was a beautiful object, and part of her wanted to keep it, but she knew that the words already lived in her heart, and always would do, and she could not ignore Wounded Child’s request. 

Days passed, and months, and then years, and the seed grew. From seedling to sapling, and eventually to a young tree, with the promise of becoming a mighty oak. 

And, as this time had passed, Lord Pompadour’s reign had lost its hold, and people were desperate for a new way. 

Outside, the world seemed to be divided into three groups. There were those who clung to the belief that Lord Pompadour would return, and that power and privilege would be rightly restored into the hands of the few. There were those who sought further destruction, looting and pillaging in the chaotic gap that was created as the world order shifted. And there were those that sought a new order, based on the ancient ways, and on ancient and sacred knowings. 

Inside, all was well. Helen waited and trusted, and knew that everything was exactly as it should be. Each day, she went to the garden and sat with the Oak Tree for a while, feeling its Hope and its Life. Like the tree, she continued to grow, becoming softer and more beautiful as she aged, her inner light shining more brightly with her increasing ability to speak her truth. Friends joined her, and told their stories as Helen told hers. And they learned from each other, and loved each other, but Helen knew that the real love, and the real lessons were within, and her most treasured hours were still those she spent with the spirit children who lived within her. 

Michael joined her under the tree too, and they also shared stories and love. And while they did, Garsoon played with Leana and Wounded Child in the garden, and the three spirit children scrambled playfully in the Oak Tree. When Garsoon and Wounded Child fell out, as they inevitably did, the two adults lovingly tended to the old wounds that had been aggravated. 

Helen observed Wounded Child closely over time. She watched the girl as she took herself away from Leana and Garsoon, guarding her jealous and miserable heart. She saw how the girl sat away from the others at the end of the branches, weighing the tree down, in her awkward attempts to hide herself away while her companions played. 

And she embraced the child, and they sat together sometimes in a rocking chair under the New Young Oak. 

“Come, Precious Wounded Child,” she would say “I would like to spend some time with you.” And she talked to Wounded Child, and told her that she was sorry that she had abandoned her, and that she would always be here now. And she lay with the girl, like the girl had done with her many years earlier, and she cried with her, and knew exactly how she felt. 

Sometimes Helen and Wounded Child would invite Leana, and they would play games together, or they would sing and dance. Sometimes they told stories or acted out plays. Sometimes Helen would just quietly tell her spirit children that she loved them very much. And sometimes she would watch them as they played, allowing them to explore, and occasionally to squabble, as they discovered their true selves. 

And then. And somewhat to her surprise, there came a day when Helen understood that she had grown enough, and that the time had come for a new lesson.