� Copyright 1995 by G. Kay Bishop All rights reserved
First published by The Ozark Feminist Review
HOW ISIS THE ENCHANTER STROLLS THROUGH THE CITY
First published by The Ozark Feminist Review
HOW ISIS THE ENCHANTER STROLLS THROUGH THE CITY
But that day -- that first day she returned to us -- she was naked absolutely. Strolling along on Wall Street of New York City at noon with not a shred, not a ribbon of clothing. I have heard that in the lands of Arabia, she appeared in a diaphanous scarf that covered everything, yet revealed all. I have heard that she was unbearably alluring to the men of that time -- that they were frantically disturbed by their lust, knifing and clawing at one another to be near her. I did not see this, but I have heard that it was so.
However it may have been in those lands, in these, the lust and passion of men was powerless against her. If any man reached out to touch her, he fell instantly into a writhing agony, and died after 24 hours of unrelieved pain. Men who spoke to her fell mute; men who stared went blind. Men who flung objects or shot weapons at her burst into flame -- human torches that burned for a night and a day. Their hoarse screams lasted only a few minutes in time, but have lingered for many years in my memory. She walked about, naked in the city, for a long time, I don't remember how long. I remember how sunlight glistened golden on her collarbones ... I remember how moonlight poured silver over her rounded belly as she walked ... I remember how magazine stalls withered to ashes in a blast of heat as she passed ... I remember how television sets exploded and video cassettes went blank ....
But these things came after. The people of that time were so falsehearted and unkind that they did not know the face of their Mother. Only when Marya knew her -- yes, our very own Queen was first among New Yorkers to recognize the Lady. Marya was a helper of persons, a very important and needful job in those days. She was called a Social Worker. Marya approached the Lady with kindness in her heart and said,
The Lady only smiled and looked full into Marya's worried face. Suddenly Marya drew a gasping sob. Half fainting, she sank to her knees, crying,
The Lady reached forth her hand, and drew on Marya's forehead the silver star and the crescent moon, emblems that she bears to this day. The Lady walked on, and Marya rose to follow her. Weeping amid her laughter, sobbing between her shouts, Marya proclaimed to all,
Marya's tongue was aflame with truth and her voice was as great as thunder, as she followed the One we call Isis through the streets of the city, proclaiming. Many were the women who joined with her after that. How many I cannot say, but I know that the streets were as rivers with the flow of human motion. I myself saw this from the height of an upper window.
I too felt the urgent joy that called for my presence, impelled me into the streets. I left the work I was doing, and became one of the women in the streets. I was not among the sexual ecstatics, the women who tore off their own clothes and danced naked in the wake of the Path of Isis. Panting, wriggling, and gyrating, they were packed so close they could only move an inch ahead at every step. Every curve and every motion of their bodies was expressive of shameless desire. Old women, fat women, disfigured women -- these were the Dancers of Isis. These were the women whose bodies had not been well-loved in that time. These bodies, long starved of love, now shone with sweat and fulfillment and the glory of Isis. Waves of sensual force spilled off from them, a vast flood of primal energy that knocked people down, knocked people right off their feet! as the Dancers passed by. I was not one of the Dancers of Isis, but I saw.
Neither was I one of the Destroyers. All around me they flew, screaming like angry falcons -- fierce women, thousands of fierce and beautiful women -- women armed with kitchen knives, iron skillets, toasting forks, with baseball bats and broken bottles. Women with sticky blood all over their hands and clothes, blood matted in their hair. Women with weapons that stab and weapons that rip, weapons that club and weapons that chop. Some bore weapons that I do not want to speak of. I pray there will never again come a time when women do such things to men as the things that I saw. I saw a team of seven women, loaded down with guns and bullet belts, killing scores of men at random, their faces serene and peaceful as if they were gathering posies. I saw a gang of housewives gouging a lone man to death with bundles of wire coat hangers twisted together to make crude spears.
In Spain, I have heard, women rode the backs of bulls, trampling underfoot the men in the marketplace. In Crete, women drowned each others' husbands in tubs of soapy laundry. In India, trenchfuls of men were burned. In China, men were bound by their feet and hung up to die slowly. In Japan, geishas served poison to their clients, and schoolgirls set fire to factories. These things I have heard, though I have not seen. Many were the ways of the Destroyers.
Foolishly, men kept coming into the streets. Drawn, lured, by the magnetism of sex, they ventured out to follow the Dancers -- only to be repelled by the staggering force of pure sensual power. The Dancers passed them by, leaving them stranded, abandoned and utterly alone. Came the Destroyers, and they left no man alone. Came the Destroyers and they left no one behind. After them, nothing was left but a heap of blood and bone and rags and the opened bowels of men. And how the streets did stink when the Destroyers had passed by!
The Dancers seemed not to notice the smell. They left a catch of their own musky perfume wherever they had been. They who were closest to Isis had some marvellous power of life-giving. One of them, stumbling for a moment over the severed head of a man, looked down.
Then she danced on. The head came alive again and screamed without ceasing until a Destroyer patiently smashed it to pulp with a length of lead pipe. In her face there was a look of pity that I shivered to see. I was not one of these -- neither Dancer nor Destroyer -- but I saw.
Neither was I among the Grievers, who mourned with silence and with keening. Nor was I one of the blessed children who trod upon the air. But I saw. I saw little girls and young maidens fling themselves from windows as the Lady walked by. I saw them float like feathers and alight in a heavenly meadow, a second Level of reality that hovered like a vast cloud of light, trailing from the head of Isis. Children on the ground stepped upward upon clear air, mounting a stair they alone could see, to join the others. Three meters above the pavement, children skipped, giggling and marvelling, holding hands, singing and making nosegays -- apparently translated bodily into the Dream of Isis. The flowers they cast down were caught by the Dancers. I was not one of the Maidens. But I saw.
For a long time, Isis the Enchanter walked in the streets of the city. I do not know how long she walked. At the end of that time, some great fools released nuclear missiles into the air. Isis wove a net of rainbows high in the ionosphere. In it, she caught the missiles and held them fast. We saw them exploding like huge fireworks, far up in the sky. Then came the Last Hour of Ancient Man. After that hour came the terrible rains. These rains melted the flesh and bones of men to nothingness. Only men seemed afflicted. Neither women nor girls, plants nor animals, not even buildings suffered any hurt. But great boys and men melted away into a nothingness beyond remembrance. The bodies of the dead men melted also. Nothing was left of them, not even ash. Only male sucklings in the arms of their mothers survived the Rain of the Wrath of Isis. Fearful is her wrath.
There was a time of great sadness after this. The Grievers sorrowed for us all during the span of one moon. Then, rising with the New Moon, out of the sea came the Gifts of Isis. Young men, lithe as deer and beautiful as laughing angels, rose up out of the salty waves. Men with golden skin and silver voices. Sweet-natured and handsome, these golden men have been good, obedient husbands, and now we love them more than we ever loved the men we knew before. Now we have sons who respect and honor us, and we do not miss our other sons.
I tell you these things that you may know the will of Isis. For I am one of the Seers. I have witnessed the walking of Isis through the streets of the City. I tell you what I have seen that you may know and be ware. Isis is good beyond measure to those who bestow their love and caring on one another. But oh, children! Be ware: fearful is the wrath of Isis. Neither Dancer nor Demon, neither Maiden nor Griever was I -- but I saw.