selene

Selenes Book of Shadows:

Beltane, 1962, San Francisco
    Today I met my future, and I'm dancing on sunlight! This A.M. I celebrated Beltane in the park downtown, and all of us from Catspaw made beautiful magick right there in the open, while the people watched. The sun was shining, we wore flowers in our hair, and we wore our ribbons around the fertility pole and made music and raised a power that filled everything with light. We had elderflower wine, and everything was so open and beautiful. The Goddess was in me, her life force, and I was awed by my own power.
I knew then that I was ready to be with a man -I'm seventeen and a woman. And as soon as I had that thought, I looked up into someone's eyes. Stella Laban was giving him a paper cup of wine, and he took it and sipped, and my knees almost buckled at the sight of his lips. Stella introduced us. His name is Patrick, and he's from Seattle. His coven is Waterwind. So he's Woodbane, like me, like all of Catspaw.
I couldn't stop looking at him. I noticed that his chestnut brown hair was shot through with grey, and he had laugh lines around his eyes. He was older then I thought, much older, maybe even fifty.
Then he smiled at me, and I felt my heart thus to a stop. Someone grabbed Stella around the waist, and she danced off, laughing. Patrick held out his hand, and without thinking I put mine in his and he led me away from the group. We sat on a boulder, the sun warm on my bare shoulders, and talked forever. When he stood up, I followed him to his car.
Now we're at his house, and he's sleeping and I am so, so happy. When he wakes up, I'll say two things: I love you. Teach me everything.
          -SB

August 7, 1968 San Francisco

     I've been packing up Patrick's things. Last week we had his memorial service- all of Catspaw and some folks from Waterwind was there. I can't believe he's gone. Sometimes I'm sure he's not gone- that he's about to start up the stairs, he's about to call, he'll walk through the door holding some new book, some new find.
My friend Nancy asked if it had bothered me that he was nearly forty years older then me. It never did. He was a beautiful man, no matter what his age. And even more important, he loved me, he shared his knowledge, he let me learn anything I could. My powers are ten times stronger now then they were when we first met.
Now Patrick's gone. The house is mine, all his things are mine. I'm looking through his books and finding so many I never knew he had. There are books hundreds of years old that I can't even decipher. Books written in code. Spelled books that I can't even open. I'm going to ask Stella for help with these. Since she became Catspaw's leader, I've trusted her more and more.
Without Patrick here to distract me, so many things are becoming clearer. I'm not sure but I think he worked with dark magick sometimes. I think some of the people who came here worked with darkness. At the time I didn't pay much attention to them. Now I think Patrick often had me spelled so I wouldn't question things. I guess I understand, but I wished he'd trusted me to accept what he was doing and not automatically condemn it.
I managed to open one book, breaking through its privacy charm with a counter spell that took me almost two hours to weave. Inside were things that Patrick never showed me: spells about calling on animals, spells for transporting your energy somewhere, spells to effect change from far away. Not dark magick per se, but proscribed nonetheless; the council says spells to manipulate should never be used lightly. No one is Catspaw would touch a book like this, even though they're Woodbane. But I would. Why shouldn't I learn all there is to know? If the knowledge exists, why should I blind myself to it?
This book is mine now. And I will study it.
   -SB

November 5, 1968
         My mind is still reeling from all that I've seen in the past week.
It started when I found Patrick's Turneval Book of shadows. That's when I discovered that Waterwind was only one of the covens that he'd belonged to. It was the one he had grown up with, back in Seattle, and It was just like Catspaw: Woodbanes who had renounced everything to do with the dark side. But since I started going through his Turneval stuff, I've seen a whole new side of him. What a waste: oh, Patrick, if only you had shared this with me, the way you shared everything else!
I wonder if he thought Turneval would horrify me. How could he had not know I'd be open to anything, anything he wanted to show me, teach me, any kind of power? He must have known. Maybe he was biding his time. Maybe he wanted to show me but died too soon.
I'll never know. I only know that I would've loved being in Turneval with him, loved for him to teach me all that it meant to be Woodbane.
On Samhain, instead of going to Catspaw's festivities, I went to a Turneval circle. We started by making a circle of power and invoking the Goddess, just like at Catspaw. Then everything changed. The Turneval witches knew spells that opened us to the deeper magic, the magic contained in all the creatures and lives that are no longer part of this earth. For the first time I was aware of a universe of untapped resources, whole strata of energy and power and connection that I had never been taught. It was frightening and unbearably exciting. I'm too much of a novice to use this power, of course-I don't even fully know how to tap into it. But Hendrick Samuels, one of Turneval's elders, gave himself over to it, and he actually shape-shifted in front of us. Goddess, he shape-shifted! Covens talk about shape-shifting like it's the story of Goldilocks- but it's real, it's possible. Before my eyes I saw Hendrick assume the form of a mountain lion, and he was glorious. I have to get close to him so he'll share the secret with me. This is what Patrick spent his life studying, what he hid from me. It's what I was meant to do, what I should have been born to but wasn’t. I see that now.
   -SB

May 2, 1969
      My skin is shriveled, and my hair is sticky and stiff with salt. I soaked in the purifying bath for two hours, with handfuls of sea salt and surrounded by crystals and sage candles. But though I can dispel the negative energy from my body, I can't erase the images from my mind.
Last night I saw my first taibhs, and when I think of it, I start shaking. Every Catspaw child hears of them, of course, and we're told scary storied about evil taibhs that steal the souls of Wiccan children who don't listen to their parents and teachers. I never thought they really existed. I guess I thought they were just holdovers from the Dark Ages, along with witches riding brooms, black cats, warts on noses: nothing to do with us today, really.
But Turneval taught me differently last night. I had dressed so carefully for the rite, wanting to outwitch, outbeauty, outpower every other woman there. They had promised me something special, something I deserved after my months of training and apprenticeship. Something I needed to go through before I could join Turneval as a full member.
Now, thinking back, I’m ashamed at how naive I was. I strode in, secure in my beauty, my strength and ruthlessness, only to find by the end of the evening that I was weak, untaught, and unworthy of Turneval's offering.
What happened wasn't my fault. I was just a witness. The ones leading the rite made mistakes in their limitations, in the writing of the spells, the circles of protection- it was the first time Timothy Cornell had called a taibhs, and he called it badly, And It killed him.
A taibhs! I still can't believe it. It was a being and not a being, a spirit and not a spirit: a dark gathering of power and hunger with a human face and hands and the appetite of a demon. I was standing there in the circle, all eager anticipation, and suddenly the room went cold, icy, like the North wind had joined us. Shivering, I looked around and saw the others had their heads bowed, their eyes closed. Then I saw it, taking form in the corner. It was like a miniature tornado, vapor and smoke boiling and coiling in on itself, becoming more solid. It wasn't suppose to do anything: we were just calling it for practice. But Timothy had done it wrong, and the thing turned on him, broke through our circles of protection, and there was nothing any of us could do.
Death by a taibhs is horrible to watch and sickening to remember. I just want to blank it all out: Tim's screams, the wrenching of his soul from his body. I'm shaking now, just thinking of it. That idot! He wasn't worthy to wield the power he was offered.
For the first time I understand why my parents, limited and dull as they were, chose to work the gentle kind of magick they did. They couldn't have controlled the dark forces any more than a child can hold back a flood by stuffing a rag in a dike.
Now I'm curled up on my bed, my wet hair flowing down my back like rain, and wondering which way I will chose: the safe, gentle, boring way of my parents or the way of the Turneval, with its power and its evil twined together like a cord. Which path holds more terror for me?
      -SB

May 17, 1970

       Spring has finally sprung in Wales. Here in Albertswyth the hills are a new bright green. The women of the village are on their hands and knees, setting plants in their gardens. Clyda and I have been walking over the hills and among the rocks, and she's been teaching me the local herb lore and the properties of the local stone, earth, water, and air. I've been here six months now, on one of life's detours. Since I found out about Clyda Rockpel from one of Patricks spelled books, I was determined to find her, to learn from her. It took two weeks of camping on her doorstep, eating bread and cheese, sleeping with my coat pulled over my head before she would speak to me. Now I'm her student, taking knowledge from her like a sea sponge absorbs ocean water. She's deep, dark, terrifying sometimes, yet the glimmers of her power, the breadth of her learning, her strength and guile in dealing with the dark forces fill me with a giddy exhilaration. I want to know what she knows, have the power to do what she does, have control over what she controls. I want to become her.
    -SB

March 18, 1971

At the age of twenty-seven, I have completed the Great Trial. It was four days ago, and I am only now able to hold a pen and sit up to write. Clyda thought I was ready, and I was to eager to do it that I didn't listen to the people who warned me not to. The Great Trial. I have wondered how to describe it, and when my words get close, I want to cry. Twenty-seven is young--- many people are never ready. Most people, when they do it are older, have been preparing for years. But I insisted I was
ready, and in the end clyda agreed. It took place on top of Windy For, past the Old Stones left by the druids. Below me I could hear the waves crashing against rocks in a timeless rhythm. There was no moon, and it was as black as the end of the world. With me were Clyda and another Welsh witch, Scott Mattox. I was naked, sky clad, and we cast the circle and started the rite. At midnight Clyda held out the goblet. I stared at it, knowing I was scared. It was the Wine of Shadows: where she had gotten it, I don't know. If I passed the Great Trial, I would live. If I didn't pass, this wine would kill me. I took the goblet with a shaking hand and drank it.

Clyda and Scott sat nearby, staying to keep me from going over the edge of the cliff. I sat down, my lips numb, muttering all the spells of power and strength that I knew. Then the first needlelike tingles of pain started in my fingertips, and I cried out.
It was a long, long night.
And here I am, alive, on the other side. I am wasted by fasting, by vomiting, by a sharp-edged sickness in my gut that makes me wonder if they fed me glass. This morning I saw myself in the mirror and screamed at the dull haired, hollow-eyed, greatly aged women I beheld. Clyda says not to worry: my beauty will come back with my strength. What is it to her? She was never beautiful and has no idea how it feels to lose it.
Yet hollowed out as I am, like a tree struck by lightning, I can tell the difference. I was strong before, but now I'm a force of nature. I feel like wind, like rain, like lava in my strength. I'm in tune with the universe, my heart beating to its primordial, deeply held thrum. I'm made of magic, I'm walking magick, and I can cause death or life with a snap of my fingers.
Was the Great Trial worth this? The illness, the screaming agony, the clawed, ripped hands, the gouges in my thighs made when I was shrieking in terror and desperation and trying to feel anything normal, anything recognizable, over physical pain? My brain was split open and put on display, my body was turned inside out. Yet in the destruction is the resurrection, in the agony is the joy, in the terror is the hope. And now I've taken that terrible, mortal journey and I've come through it. And I'll be like a Goddess myself, and lesser beings will follow me. And I'll found a dynasty of witches that will amaze the world.

November 8, 1973
      Clyda fainted again yesterday. I found her at the bottom of the stairs. This is the third time in two weeks. Neither of us have mentioned it, but the fact is that she is old. She hasn’t taken care of herself, she’s worked too much magick with too few limitations, and she’s dabbled too freely with the dark forces.
That’s a mistake I never make. Yes, I’m part of Turneval, and yes, I call on the dark side. But never without protecting myself. Never without precautions. I don’t drink from that cauldron without making sure it will be refilled.
At any rate, Clyda’s health is Clyda’s concern. She doesn’t ask for or want my care, and now I need her less and less in my studies. Since the Great Trial, I can learn anything easily; of course, the strength and the weakness of Wicca is that there’s always more to be learned.
I just reread this entry and can’t believe I’m yapping on about an old woman’s health when just last night my life changed again. Clyda finally introduced me to some members of her coven, Amyranth. Even now my skin gets chilled, just writing the name. I won’t lie: they terrify me, by reputation, by their very existence. And yet I’m so drawn to them and their mission. I have no doubt I was meant to be part of them. From birth I was marked to be in Amyranth, and to deny that would be lying to myself. Oh, I have to go—Clyda is calling.
   -SB

Samhain, 1975
   Last night my two-year apprenticeship with Amyranth ended. So much has changed in my life in the past five years. When I think back to who and what I was, it’s like looking back at a different lifetime, a different person. Who I am now is so much more intense and fulfilling.
We’re in northern Scotland now, and it’s as bleak and forbidding a place as there is. The land is wild here, and I love it, even though I know I wasn’t meant to live here. But here we are, and my bones are soaking up the power that seeps from the very rocks in this place.
Two years ago, when I was inducted into Amyranth, I’d heard only vague rumors of dark waves. Since then there have been three events that I know of, but I wasn’t allowed to participate in them or know the details. Last night that changed.
The coven we took was Wyndenkell, and it was older that anyone knew. It had existed for at least 450 years. I can’t imagine that. In America, most of our covens have existed for less than a hundred. The magic here is ancient and compelling, which is why we wanted it.
I’m bound not to describe the even, nor what we did to call the wave. But I will say that it was the most terrifying, exhilarating event I’ve ever witnessed. The sight of the huge, fierce wave, the purplish black color of a bruise, sweeping over the gathered circle- feeling it’s icy wind snatching the souls and power of the witches, feeling its energy being fused into me, like lightning- well, I’m a changed woman, a changed witch. I’m a daughter of Amyranth, and that fact alone gives my life meaning and joy.
Now the Wyndenkell coven’s knowledge and magick are ours. As they should be.
-SB

Lammas, 1976
I’m fairly well settled into the house now that Clyda’s gone. Her death three months ago was a surprise to everyone but me. She’d been sick, getting frailer and weaker. I think it was the dark wave in Madrid that really took it out of her. Really, she had no business traveling at her age. But it’s difficult for some people to acknowledge their weakness.
I was in Ireland last week and met two interesting witches. One was a gorgeous boy, just old enough to shave, whose power is already frightening and strong and worth watching. I took Ciaran to bed for a night, and he was charmingly youthful, enthusiastic, and surprisingly skilled. I’m smiling even now, thinking about it. But it’s Daniel Niall who’s haunting my thoughts, and the irony of this can’t escape me. Daniel is a Woodbane from England who came to one of Amyranth’s gatherings in Shannon. I could see he was uncomfortable, had come out of curiosity and found us not to his liking. For some reason that made him even more attractive to me. He doesn’t have Ciaran’s harsh , raw beauty, but he is good looking, with strong, masculine features, and when he looked into my eyes and smiled shyly, my heart missed a beat. Sweet Daniel. He’s deeply good, honest, from one of those Woodbane covens that renounced evil ages ago. It’s oddly endearing and also a challenge: how much satisfying to seduce an angel than a villain?
-SB

December 13, 1977
     The mysteries of Amyranth can’t hold a candle to the mysteries of love. What is it about Daniel Niall that makes me so crazy? Has he spelled me to love him? No- that’s ludicrous. Noble, honest Daniel would never do such a thing. No, I love him for himself, and it’s so out of character for me that I can’t stop questioning it.
Why is he so compelling? How is he different from other men I’ve had? Like every other man, he’s given in to me- no one has ever told me no, and Daniel is no exception. Yet I sense an inner wall that I can’t breach. There’s something within him that my love, my power, my beauty hasn’t touched. What is it?
I know that he loves me, and I know he wishes he didn’t .I enjoy making him realize how much he wants me. I take pleasure in watching him try to resist and being unable to. And then I make his compliance worth his while. But what is he holding back?
At any rate, Daniel is here and there working on various studies- he’s very academic; he wants to understand everything, know the history of everything. A real book witch. It takes him away from me often. Which is a good thing, because his presence severely curtails my Amyranth activities . I’m now doing more and more within the group and less with Turneval. The Unnamed Elders have begun teaching me the deeper magick of Amyranth, and it’s more draining and exciting than anything I’ve imagined. I’m lost within in, drunk with it, immersed in it- and the only thing that pulls me out is the chance of spending time with Daniel. This makes me laugh.
- SB

Beltane, 1979
        I’ve been married for less than twenty-four hours, and already my new husband is threatening to leave me- he thinks the ceremony was all my doing, it
wasn’t what he expected, I didn’t respect his wishes, ect. He’ll be all right. He needs to calm down, to relax, to get over his fears. Then we can talk, and he’ll see that everything is all right, everything is fine, and we were meant to be together.

Why did I marry Daniel Niall? Because I couldn’t help myself. Because I wanted him too much to let him go. Because I needed to be the one he wanted, the one he would live with and come home to. My mother would have approved of this match. Anyone who actually knows me thinks I’m crazy. At any rate, Daniel and I were married last night, and for me it was beautiful, powerful, primal.
When we stood sky clad under the ripe, full moon, with Turneval chanting around us, the heady scent of herbs burning, the warmth of the bonfire toasting our skin- I felt like the Goddess herself, full of life, fertile. For me it was so natural that we embrace, open our mouths and kiss, that I pressed myself against him. And how could he not respond? We were naked, I was seducing him, it was a full moon. Of course he responded. But he found his physical response ( so public, so witnessed) to be unbearable. For Daniel it was humiliation, abasement.
How will I reconcile these two areas of my life? How can I keep my work with Amyranth a secret? How can I protect Daniel from Amyranth?
I’ll have to solve the problems as they come.
-SB

February 27, 1980
    Daniel is in England again. He’s been gone two weeks. And I’m not sure when he’ll be back. He always comes back, though. The temptation is strong to cast a summoning spell on him, pulling him to me sooner, but I have resisted, and there’s a satisfaction in knowing that he always comes back because he can’t help himself and not because I forced him to.
Is this marriage? This isn’t my parents ‘ marriage, quiet and sedate and tandem. When Daniel and I are together, we are shouting, arguing, fighting, and despising each other, and then we are grappling, falling to the bed, making love with intense passion that has so much to do with hate as it does with love. And then in the aftermath I see his beauty once again, not just his physical beauty, but his inner sweetness, the goodness inside him. I love and appreciate that, even as it clashes so harshly with what is inside me.
We have moments of calm and gentleness, during which we’re holding hands and kissing sweetly. Then Amyranth raises its head or his studies call him away, and we are again two angry cats tied in a burlap bag and thrown into a river: desperate, clawing, fighting, trying only to survive no matter the cost. And he goes away and I immerse myself in Amyranth, and I know I could never give it up. Then I miss Daniel and he comes back, and the cycle starts again.
Is this marriage? It is my marriage.
-SB

November 12, 1980
      Another day, another fight with Daniel. His constant antagonism is exhausting. He hates Amyranth and everything about it, and of course he only knows a tiny, tiny part of it, If he knew anything like the whole story, he would leave me forever. Which is completely unacceptable. I’ve been trying to come to terms with this dilemma since I met him, and I still don’t have an answer. He refuses to see the beauty of Amyranth’s cause. I’ve rejected his attempts to show me the beauty of goody-two–shoes scholarship and boiling up garlic- and- ginger tisanes to help clear up coughs. Why am I unable to let him go? No man has ever held this much sway over me, not even Patrick. I want to give Daniel up, I’ve tried, but I get only as far as wishing him gone before I start aching desperately to have him back. I simply love him, want him. The irony of this doesn’t escape me. When we’re good together, we’re really, truly good, and we both feel a joy, a completeness that can’t be matched or denied. Lately, though, it seems like the good times are fewer and farther between- we have truly irreconcilable differences.
If I bend Daniel’s will to my own through magick, how much would he be diminished? How much would I?
-SB

November, 1981
      I’m pregnant. It’s a bizarre physiological experience, like being taken over by an alien that I can’t control. Every cell in my body is changing. It’s thrilling and terrifying: much like being part of Amyranth.
Daniel, of course, is furious. These past six months he’s always furious with me, so there’s nothing new there. We’d agreed not to have children because our marriage has seemed so rocky. By myself, I decided I wanted to have part of Daniel always, wanted to have something permanent that was partly me and partly him. So I used magick to override his conception block. It was easy.
So Daniel’s thrown a fit and hightailed it back to England. I’ve settled in San Francisco because of the Amyranth presence here. What is it about England that pulls him back so strongly? This is the third time in three months that he’s gone back. For me, my home is where Amyranth is. Daniel’s sentimental loyalty seems naïve and misplaced.
He’ll be back soon. He always comes back. And the mirror shows me that pregnant, I am more beautiful than ever. When he sees me glowing, carrying our child, it will be a new start for us. I can feel it.
   -SB

April 1982
   Be careful what you wish for, they say. Because you may get it.
I’ve gotten what I wished for, and the goddess must be laughing. Daniel’s come home, after being gone almost three months. The baby is due in June, and I look big and vibrant and fertile, like the goddess herself. It’s been interesting to see how pregnancy affects my magick: I’m more powerful in some ways, but there are some unpredictable side effects. Some spells fall apart, some have unexpected results. Nothing can be counted on. It’s funny, for the most part. However, for the last seven months I’ve haven’t been able to do my part for Amyranth. They’ve been understanding, though- they know I’ll soon present them with a perfect Amyranth baby, one literally born to do their work.
It’s hard for me to put the next words down. I’ve found out the reason Daniel goes to England so much: he has a girlfriend there. He actually told me this himself. I was sure he was joking- what women, witch or human, can compete with me? But as he droned on and the words started sinking in, I went through being amused, then horrified, then furious. This other woman, whom he won’t name, and he have known each other for years and had a childhood romance. But their affair only started six months ago- right after I conceived my baby. I’m shocked beyond words. The idea that Daniel could keep such a secret from me is unbelievable. It means his powers are stronger than I knew, and how is that possible?
I’m thinking about what to do next. That this other woman has to be found and eliminated goes without saying. Daniel says their affair is over. Pathetically, he wept when he told me. What a worm! He came back to me for the sake of the baby we’re having, but he won’t sleep with me and says he won’t pretend we’re a couple anymore. This won’t do at all. He’s going to be mine or no one’s. I have to break his will, bind him to me. Now I must go- I have research to do and people to consult.
-SB

June 1982
      Praise the Goddess. I finally had my baby boy. He is a big, perfect baby, with fine dark hair like mine and odd, slate- colored eyes that will no doubt change color later. Norris Hathaway and Helen Ford attended as midwives and were absolute lifesavers during labor. Labor! Goddess, I had no idea. I felt I was being rent in two, torn apart, giving birth to an entire world. I tried to be strong but I admit I screamed and cried. Then my son crowned, and Norris reached down to twist out his shoulders. I looked down to see my son emerge into the light, and my tears of pain turned to tears of joy. It was the most incredible magick I’ve ever made.
His naming ceremony will be next week. I’ve decided on Calhoun: warrior. His Amyranth name is Sgàth, which means darkness. It’s a sweet darkness, like his hair.

Daniel didn’t come to the birth: a sign of his weakness. He slouches around, mooning over England and his whore there, which makes me despise him, though I can’t stop wanting him. He seems pleased with his son, less pleased with me. Now that our baby is here, flesh and blood, beautiful and perfect, perhaps Daniel will find happiness with me. It would be best for him if he did.
Now that I’ve had the baby, I’m hungry to get back to work with Amyranth. They were in Wales and then in Germany in the past several months, and I was gnashing my teeth with envy. The Germany trip yielded some ancient books on darkness that I can’t wait to see- I can already taste them. It will be intensely fulfilling for me to watch Calhoun grow up within the arms of Amyranth, their son as well as mine. He will by my instrument, my weapon.
-SB

Yule, 1982
         The house is decorated with yew boughs and holly, wintergreen and mistletoe. Red candles burn and catch Cal’s eyes, now golden, like mine, This is his first Yule, and he loves it.
I found out that Daniels whore in England had a baby, a boy, a month ago. It’s Daniel’s. She named him Giomanach. Daniel must be shielding her, because I haven’t been able to find her, this Fiona, and get rid of her. Now I’m going to ask Amyranth to help me. It’s hard to describe the feelings I have. It’s so painful to admit to humiliation, despair, fury. If I were truly strong, I would strike Daniel dead. Im my fantasies I’ve done that a thousand times- I’ve put his head on a spike in my front yard, cut out his heart, and mailed it to dear Fiona. I would scry to see her opening the box, seeing his heart. I would laugh.
Except that this is Daniel. I don’t understand why I feel about him the way I do. Goddess help me, I can’t stop loving him. If my love for him could be cut out from me, I would take up an athame and do it. If my need for him could be burned out, I would sear myself with witch fire or candle fire or an athame heated red hot in flame.
The fact that I still love him, despite his betrayal, despite the fact that he had a bastard with another woman, is like a sickness. I asked him how it had happened; were they both such poor witches that they couldn’t even weave a contraceptive spell? He snapped at me and said no, the child was an accident, conceived of honest emotion. Unlike Calhoun, who had been my decision alone. He stormed out, into the wet San Francisco fog. He’ll be back. I’ll be against his will, be he always returns.

The joy in my life right now consist of one being, one perfection who delights me. Cal at six months is surpassing all my hopes and expectations. He has wisdom in his baby eyes, a hunger for knowledge I recognize. He’s a beautiful child and easy: calm tempered yet determined, willing yet heartbreakingly sweet. To see his face light up when I come in makes everything else worthwhile. So this Yule is a time of darkness and light, for me as well as the goddess.
   -SB