To Live in Growing Orbits, Vol IV: The Lindworm

A Bath of Lye and Milk

May 16, 2024

“Save the son.” Words I heard two nights ago in a dream. I then saw a giant gecko hanging from a ceiling by bits of sticky web. Small, ordinary-size geckos, the ones I see every day on my lanai were taking bites out of it, with the intent to consume it completely. Little dragons tearing down their idol, their forgotten god.

Now geckos aren’t exactly dragons, but they are the closest reptiles in my vicinity, and sometimes that’s the way dreams work. They take what’s in your daily life and use it to try to speak to you in a language you can understand. “Save the son,” the voice said as I watched the little geckos eat. Who was the son?

I didn’t know at first, but as the veil of sleep lifted, an answer came. In last week’s essay, “To Live in Growing Orbits, Volume III: The Name,” we encountered four animals: eel, fish, shrimp, and crab, with the crab being the hero of sorts who helps the heroine free of herself from the old witch by telling the girl the witch’s name. That name was In A Storm, Coffin On Her Back, a reflection of the witch’s true nature and a prophecy, since giving into her tempestuous rage is what causes the witch’s death. I have Cancer rising, the crab being the symbol of this sign, and am most definitely sensitive as most Cancers are, some say over-sensitive. In my commentary on the story, I shared about feeling rejected by readers when they unsubscribe. Not a pretty look. (I got some more unsubscribes, which doesn’t surprise me.) In our competition culture, many use admissions of vulnerability, especially ugly ones like mine, to build themselves up through attack.

What I didn’t realize, when I took a risk and shared a part of myself that was ugly, was that I was under the influence of another story. I had taken a break from writing and listened to an audio of

Martin Shaw

telling the old Norwegian tale The Lindworm. If you’ve heard Martin spin a yarn, even on YouTube, you won’t be surprised The Lindworm wrapped its tale around my torso and squeezed tight enough until I finally had so little breath left I had to spill the beans, confess my weakness even though I knew there was a good chance I’d be reviled for it, because that is one of my standards for all I create. I must be available for my own medicine. If I am going to offer you a story where an ugly witch dies because of her rage, the ugly witch in me is going to need tending.

If you’re wondering what this has to do with dragons, or even geckos, a wirm (sometimes spelled wyrm), is not one of those slimy, eye-less tubes we dig up in our gardens, and it’s not a snake either. It’s a dragon without wings. Sometimes it has feet, but not always, as in this illustration by Swedish artist John Bauer:

Let’s hear the story:

The Lindworm

Once there was a kingdom ruled by good and just monarchs. A king and queen much loved by their subjects. All would have been well, but for one thing—the queen could not conceive a child.

One day while walking in the deep woods, the queen came upon an old woman who noticed her deep sorrow and asked about it. The queen told her why.

This is what the old woman told her:

“You cannot conceive a child because you’ve never expressed your desires. Tonight, back at your castle, go into the Northwest corner of the garden and speak them into a cup. Flip the cup upside down onto the dark earth and leave it there. In the morning, when you return, flip it over. You will see two flowers, red and white. Whatever you do, don’t eat the red flower.”

The queen hastened back to the castle and did as the old woman had instructed. She spoke her desires into the cup and flipped it over onto the ground. In the morning, when she flipped it upright, there were the two flowers, just as the old woman had said. She reached for the white flower, when suddenly, as if her arm was drawn by a magnet in the flower’s stamen, her hands found themselves snapping the stalk of the red flower. She shoved it in her mouth and gobbled it down before she could even think.

Right away, she knew she was pregnant. She and her husband were elated. The whole kingdom anticipated the long-awaited birth of an heir.

The queen went into labor. A midwife was called. Moaning and groaning, she bore down and pushed, the midwife ready between her legs to catch the baby, when out popped a small black snake. Nobody saw it but the midwife. She grasped hold of it and whipped it out the window into the forest. The queen kept pushing and gave birth to a beautiful boy.

If anybody else had seen the snake, nobody mentioned it. The beautiful boy grew to be a handsome prince, and eventually was ready to marry. He set out on his own to wander the kingdom in search of a bride.

That first day, whistling blithely on horseback, envisioning a maiden in a meadow waiting for him, the young prince came to a crossroads. Before he could decide which way to go, a giant black snake reared up and bellowed at him, “Older brothers marry first!”

Dismayed, yet intent on finding a wife, the prince took another path, that led to another crossroads. He did that about a hundred times that day, and you know what happened every time?

“Older brothers marry first!” The black snake was always there before him.

The prince decided to return to the castle and seek council from his parents.

“Is there anything about my birth you haven’t told me?”

“No,” his parents replied. “But maybe the midwife knows something.”

The three of them descended into the bowels of the castle and found the midwife, who when asked at first said, “No…” which quickly changed to, “Well, there was something a little odd.” And she told them about the small black snake that had slipped from between the queen’s legs before the prince slid out.

When the king heard she’d thrown that snake out the window, he immediately said they must make a home in the castle for it. He sent out his greatest bards to woo it, and the snake came to nest in the room they’d prepared for it. Word went out in the kingdom that a prince was in search of a bride.

All the young girls wanted to marry a prince of course, although over time as bride after bride entered the wedding chamber and never came out, the castle got a reputation. Maidens stopped lining up at the gates.

Then word came there was still one young woman willing to marry the prince on one condition, “I need a year and a day to prepare,” she told the court.

Now this young woman was the daughter of a shepherd. She grew up in the forest and knew its ways. Some say even the trees spoke to her. One day during that year leading up to her sacred vow of marriage, an old woman stepped out of an oak tree. The young woman asked for her advice. This is what she said:

“You must sew twelve night shirts, and over the heart, right above your heart, embroider exquisite designs. On your wedding night, wear all twelve into the bridal chamber. You must also ask for a bath of lye, a bath of milk, and two wire brushes.”

The old woman disappeared back into the oaks. A year and a day passed. It was time for the wedding.

Once the ceremony was over, it was time for the newlyweds to enter the wedding chamber. Even with the snake coiled around her, even hearing the muffled sobs of the courtiers and servants, the young bride didn’t quake. This was her husband. Into the chamber they went. The door closed with a thud that rippled through the whole castle.

With all twelve dresses on, the young bride was rather unshapely. The groom wanted to see what he was getting. “Take off your dress,” he commanded.

She looked him right in the eye. “I will take off one of my dresses, if you take off one set of your scales.”

The snake paused. “No one has ever asked me that.” He agreed.

She took off one dress, he took off a set of scales. The pain was excruciating. His howls could be heard throughout the castle, and it only got worse as the night went on. One by one, they both disrobed, she removing the night shirts she’d embroidered so beautifully above the heart, he, layer after layer of scales. Finally, all his scales gone, she beheld what was beneath them with the eyes of her heart— a slimy, shapeless worm, a ball of goop, bloody and raw. She lifted up the metal brushes, dipped them in the lye bath, and started scrubbing.

If you thought the sound of the howls he’d made as he de-scaled was horrifying, it was nothing compared to the shrieks he emitted as she scrubbed off layer after layer of goo, until finally, laying on the castle floor, she beheld the face of someone who’d been sent into exile at birth, an ordinary man, her husband. Lifting him up, she carried him to the bath of milk and gently lowered him, bathing him in that milk until he was clean.

In the morning, everyone in the castle expected to be greeted by the same sight when they opened the doors to the bride and groom’s chamber—bones scattered all around and a serpent bellowing, “Older brothers marry first!” but this time was different. This time, when they opened the doors they discovered two lovers coiled around each other in the marriage bed, awakening to the hard-earned peace of their night’s labor.

And, as Martin Shaw, who first told me this story says, “As far as I know, to this day, in that kingdom that lives within you and me, there is a woman with an educated heart, and a man who learned to shed his scales.”

In the Kingdom of the Story

Where do you find yourself in the kingdom of this story? Last week, when I took that break and listened to Martin tell it, as was my custom, I asked myself that question, and was surprised to hear, “Older brothers marry first!” I wanted to see myself as the brave and noble young woman, not the petulant beast. I also saw the young woman bathing the newly hatched man in milk. I went back to writing about The Name, and all that icky stuff about feeling hurt and passed over came out.

“Older brothers marry first!”

It was true, there was a part of me that felt I hadn’t got what I deserved. Like I said, not a pretty picture. I exposed myself anyway, because I want to be honest more than I want to be liked, and that’s saying a lot because, as I said, I have Cancer rising and am extremely sensitive to criticism. It also makes me sensitive to the pain of others. When I was younger, I’m ashamed to admit, sometimes I used that awareness to attack before I was attacked, but as I’ve healed, compassion is now my default response. That is a contribution to evolving humanity I’m proud of, which may seem grandiose, but I know I’ve earned it. Sometimes, I know it’s best to allow my shame to be observed in private, just me looking within at my wounds with tender eyes. Sometimes only one witness is needed to heal, but there must be a witness.

The love I seek won’t come from readers, though I do appreciate you, and take great pleasure in your companionship. It won’t be the result of praise, or a thousand-and-one subscribers who will make me feel enchanted and special like a tale from Arabian Nights.

That love will only come from disrobing, taking off my scales until the quivering worm is revealed, the core of self-hatred. It won’t come until the worm’s skin has been dissolved by wire brushes dipped in a bath of lye, lye that is made from water and ashes, all that we’ve lost turned caustic in order to clean. And it will never come unless I lift myself off that castle floor and lower myself into the milk bath, soothe myself in the liquid of mothering.

So that is what I’ve been doing this week. There hasn’t been any loud shrieking, but it hasn’t been easy. I’ve been walking around with a flush of shame on my cheeks, wondering when the next attack will come. Who am I to think exposing myself can make any difference in the world? Stop being so self-absorbed. Write about something that really matters like children dying in Gaza.

These voices haven’t stopped, but they are softening. The dragon came to me in my sleep and asked me to help his kind grow back their wings, to help save their sons, which I see as a request to help the masculine in us all release our fear of vulnerability.

This morning, I heard Ke’oni Hanalei speak on vulnerability on his Instagram story. One thing he said that leapt out, was his belief that patriarchy arose out of survival. Here is that story:

Once upon a time there were cataclysms that destroyed our civilizations, leaving us in chaos. Patriarchy arose to help us rebuild after terrifying loss. We need the structure, needed to be told what to do, needed someone to be the authority that would keep us safe. But now it has calcified, and we are still here, fighting the same wars and possibly facing more cataclysms as our planet rises up to rebalance itself. The masculine principle, which lives in all of us, has become rigid. He does not want to let go of control by exposing his weakness, because not only was his very existence the result of cataclysm, life after those cataclysm was so difficult that expressing weakness could literally lead to death if he was thrown out by the tribe.

I speak now as a brother, to all my brothers. If we’ve continue on this path we’ve laid, the genocide will never end. The children of Gaza will die over and over again, everywhere, until there are no more children left. That is why I expose myself and admit my weakness, even though I’m ashamed of how petty and ugly my feelings may seem when compared with the unspeakable suffering we are witnessing right now on our planet.

I chose those words “may seem,” because maybe some of you don’t see me that way. If so, thank you for your compassion. I chose those words because I am still in the bath of milk being washed clean by my bride. I don’t know what I’ll look like when she’s done. I don’t know if she’ll be able to rinse off all my ugliness, but I let her soothe me, and hope for the best.

I know the love I seek is within me. I have seen a vision of myself wrapped in its arms, buoyant in the morning light.

“As far as I know, to this day, in that kingdom that lives within you and me, there is a woman with an educated heart, and a man who learned to shed his scales.”

—Martin Shaw

Shall we seek, together, this kingdom?

Woman in a Bath Sponging Her Leg, Edgar Degas

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