ᴀ ᴛᴏᴅᴅʟɪɴɢ ᴍʏsᴛᴇʀʏ

ᴛʀᴀᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴀ ᴡɪᴄᴄᴀɴ ʜᴏʟɪᴅᴀʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴇɪɢʜᴛ sᴀʙʙᴀᴛs, ᴏsᴛᴀʀᴀ ɪs ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴄᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ sᴘʀɪɴɢ ᴇǫᴜɪɴᴏx ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴛs ʀᴇɴᴇᴡᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇʙɪʀᴛʜ ᴏʀ ɴᴇᴡ ʙᴇɢɪɴɴɪɴɢs. ᴏsᴛᴀʀᴀ ʜᴀs sᴇᴠᴇʀᴀʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇs, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɴɢʟᴏ—sᴀxᴏɴ ɢᴏᴅᴅᴇss, ᴇᴏsᴛʀᴇ.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ᴏsᴛᴀʀᴀ sʏᴍʙᴏʟɪᴢᴇs ʀᴇʙɪʀᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ғᴇʀᴛɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɪs ᴀʟsᴏ ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴏғ ɴᴇᴡ sᴇᴇᴅs ғᴏʀ ғᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ sᴇᴠᴇʀᴀʟ sʏᴍʙᴏʟs ᴀssᴏᴄɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴏsᴛᴀʀᴀ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʀᴇ ᴏʀ ʀᴀʙʙɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴇᴠᴀʟ ᴛɪᴍᴇs ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀʀᴄʜ ʜᴀʀᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴀssᴏᴄɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ғᴇʀᴛɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ ᴏғ sᴘʀɪɴɢ.

ᴀɴ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛɪɴɢ ғᴀᴄᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀʀᴄʜ ʜᴀʀᴇ ɪs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ɪs ᴛʏᴘɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴀ ɴᴏᴄᴛᴜʀɴᴀʟ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ʙᴜᴛ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴍᴀᴛɪɴɢ sᴇᴀsᴏɴ ɪᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏғᴛᴇɴ ʙᴇ sᴇᴇɴ ғɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʏᴛɪᴍᴇ. ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʀᴇᴍᴀʀᴋᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ʟɪᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴏғ ʙᴜɴɴɪᴇs ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴏɴᴇ.

The story of Ostara is inspired by the Sabbats. Ostara is still a creature being built but I am sharing a bit of detail prior to the opening of this story to give a bit of explanation to her creation. I wasn't quite sure where I was going when I came to connect with Ostara at first, but it became clear as I sat thinking about her that she needed some basis of history from childhood that resonated with the season and connection with motherhood. I am eager to see how it develops.

Check it out and see what you think?

“Where did they find this child?”

“She’s barely four years of age. Where are her parents?”

I can remember those first statements that brushed my young ears like a record being played in them. Nevertheless, they didn’t seem to consider me. Save for one woman with a pixie cut hairstyle and not a hair out of place on her pretty blonde head.

“Hello, sweetheart; my name is Aubrey Laurant-Dodens. May I ask you yours?”

“Oh..Os…”

Scared, I found my tongue turning to stone in the middle of my mouth, but I managed to push it out, “Tara.”

“Ostara?” Aubrey asked, her face seeming to morph a bit as she said it,

“Well, that’s unique isn’t it? Sounds…European, or maybe Middle Eastern?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what about the last name?”

“I..Ostara Brynne.” I murmured, “I just know that.”

“Oh, sounds like a first and middle name. Are you an only child? Where did you come from?” Aubrey asked.

“I don’t know. Pop-pop is he okay?”

“Pop-pop; was that your grandpa?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what about your parents, Ostara?”

“I…my mama left me with Pop-pop.”

“Oh, do you know her name? Or where she went?”

“Stop asking. I said.”

Was she deaf? Or dumb? I crinkled my nose as my face turned to disgust.

“You have a large vocabulary for such a little girl. Perhaps a bit undisciplined.” Aubrey muttered.

“Un…diseepleened?” I repeated.

“No, un-dis-i-plined. It means you’ve not been taught proper manners, but that is curable.”

“Curable? Do I need a doctor?”

“Ha, and precocious. I think you will serve just fine.”

“Serve?”

“Ha, I mean to have a daughter, miss. Do you want to stay in care?”

I noticed when she spoke, Aubrey was both kind and inviting, but something seemed awry when a caseworker suddenly rushed in and blurted loudly,

“I think that’s sufficient. It’s best not to tell a child anything that will lift hopes that might not come to be.”

I didn’t like her and I thought her name suited how ugly she seemed to be, Ms. Ingrid Bethany-Holmes. You couldn’t tell it from her outward appearance, but Ingrid had a dark character and her presence made my skin visibly crawl with apprehension.

Fin