Abraxas and Metis

(a kind of origin story for Skylar's grandparents...)

So in the post called “Skylar’s Sumer Vacation” I mentioned that Skylar Warded’s grandparents are a bit unusual. This story tells a little bit about them. And it also touches on one of the most iconic events of my youth: the Woodstock Festival.

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Toward the middle of August, in the latter decades of the 20th century, two gods stood hitch-hiking on route 17B in New York State. A steady rain fell from gray skies. The greater god was wrapped in a heavy coat the color of a lion’s pelt. The lesser god, dressed in a variety of brightly colored scarves and sweaters, obviously stolen, with tags still hanging down from them, paced irritably by the shoulder, kicking at the red slate chips and the flowering milkweed.

“It has been three hours, my Lord,” complained the minor god.

The other one remained silent and impassive.

“Three hours in this desolate place.” He wiggled his right hand in the other god’s face. “Look! I’ve lost almost all power in my thumb! Soon it will be fit for nothing more than a perch for your eagles. Let us go home. Or at least take a bus. I am tired…”

“Be still!” said the taller one, his face like a thundercloud.

“I am weary of this uncharitable country, this self-involved era. Three cars have passed without stopping.”

“You’ve had your petty vengeance.”

The younger god smiled. “Yes. Cracked engine blocks. Very costly, I’m told. At least let me stop this rain.”

“No.”

“At home beautiful, eager women are dancing. And there is wine. And song. And sun.”

“You shall have all that and more when we arrive at the festival in the town of Goshen. This festival, Woodstock, is a crux in history. The world will change. We must witness it.”

“But now?”

“Now,” the greater god said cryptically, “is now.”

“And now,” exclaimed the lesser god, “I want someone to stop!”

A large pickup skidded to a halt in front of them, spraying them with gray mud. The doors flung open releasing a beery miasma. Two individuals with back-turned caps dismounted, one holding a baseball bat.

“Four thousand years old,” the greater god groaned, “and still you haven’t learned.”

The other god tried to look sheepish, but failed. “Hello to you, gentlemen!” he called out to the two men. “We thank you kindly for stopping to give us a ride!”

“Fags!” spat the man holding the baseball bat. “You’re dead, ass-fucker!”

The other man, grinning broadly with broken teeth, fetched a tire-iron from the cargo bed “Thank-you kindly,” he said with smiling sarcasm. “We ain’t got a chance to fuck up no homos yet this morning.”

The man brandishing the baseball bat approached the greater god, who stood glowering in his coat.

“Oh! Gentlemen!” said the other god, “There’s still time for you to reconsider!”

“Reconsider this,” growled the man with the bat, and swung it at the greater god’s head.

The bat immediately sprouted a crown of green branches that gently caressed the god’s coat.

“You surely didn’t think that oak would harm him, did you?” said the lesser god, as if in mild surprise.

“Goddamn!” the other man spat, attacking the lesser god with his tire iron.

Smiling, the younger god made a brief gesture. The tire iron turned into a snake, biting its wielder fiercely before slithering away into a ditch.

“I grow weary of this,” said the greater god. “Deal with them.”

“Yes, my Lord. With pleasure!”

He turned to the men who were trying to scramble back into their pickup.

“Oh, please do stay,” he said politely.

The men froze in place, a look of terror in their eyes.

“You have yet to reap the reward for your kindness!” He put his hand on his chin, considering. “Now what would be appropriate? Spite for spite, malice for malice. Something small and cruel, I think.” He made a curt gesture with one hand.

The two men began to scream. Their bones cracked and their flesh writhed. Their mouths fused into sharp-toothed muzzles and their slick hair spread like fungus all over their bodies. Their voices grew shrill and inhuman as they shrank, their grease-stained clothes falling around them. And at length two minks slithered out from under the piles of clothing, and ran off across the fields, snapping and snarling at each other.

The greater god looked disdainfully at the abandoned pickup. “Dispose of that.” he said.

The other smiled and waved his arms around theatrically. The 4x4 lifted itself gracefully into the air and burst into fine gray dust. The dust squirmed and twisted and glowed, and soon a new rest stop, complete with bathrooms and vending machines, graced the road. Not being one to pay for anything honestly, the younger god kicked a shiny new vending machine and returned with a can of Pepsi and a bag of chips.

The two gods stood under the canopy of the rest stop, sheltering from the rain, the one still as a mountain, the other hopping from one foot to the other, blowing on his fingers. The traffic was still sparse at this time of the morning, but eventually a brightly painted VW bus sputtered down the road. The lesser god stuck out his thumb listlessly. To his surprise, the car slid to a stop.

“You folks need a ride?” The man had long, dark hair held in a ponytail by a silver ring. He wore small pink spectacles and sported a long brown mustache. The woman beside him was very pretty and had fiery black almond-shaped eyes.

“Yes! Thank you so very much!” said the younger god.

The man walked to the back of his van and slid open the doors. The two divine beings stepped in. The inside of the vehicle was hung with crystals, dream-catchers, beads, and bright posters of various bands. A small ginger cat hissed at the strangers as they entered, then with a strange squeak, hid himself under a crocheted blanket by the rear window.

“Hi!” the driver said. “I’m Abe and this is my lovely wife, Mette.” He held out his hand to the greater god, who just stared at it. The younger god, though, grabbed Abe’s hand in both of his, and shook it vigorously.

“Greetings! And many thanks! You can call me Herm…man. Herman. And this is my…father.”

“I don’t remember there being a rest stop on this road, do you Abe?” asked Mette.

“It’s new. Brand new!” said the being calling himself Herman.

“Must be,” said Abe. “Where you folks heading?”

“We must witness the great festival in Goshen,” said the taller passenger.

“Woodstock? That’s where we’re heading, too. It’s going to be amazing! Jefferson Airplane, The Who, Joplin, Hendrix, and a dozen more are playing.”

“It is a very significant event,” said the lion-coated one.

“You bet your ass it is!”

Abe turned the key. The engine coughed and turned over.

“There’s some coffee in the thermos in the seat behind you,” Mette said, cheerfully. “Maybe not much. We can get more when we stop at Hunting Town. There are some mugs hanging on the wall there under the Peter Max poster. And some creamer and sugar. All chemicals, creamer never saw a cow. But it’s the best we can do. We’ll have to stop for gas in Hunting, too.”

“You’re very generous,” said Herman. “No one has stopped for us since we came to this road.” He opened the thermos. A delightful, fruity smell filled the cabin. He poured a rich purple liquid into a cup and handed it to his “father”. Then he poured a pungent amber fluid into a cup for himself. Mette looked at them curiously.

“Some people are suspicious around here,” said Abe. “They don’t like strangers. They don’t like change. Lots of old grievances. Old German and Dutch families, been here for generations.”

“Tell me, if you will then,” said Herman, “what happy land do you hail from, where folk are more open-hearted and welcoming to strangers?”

Mette laughed heartily. “We’re from the city. New York. And nobody ever described it that way! Greenwich Village is a little more easy-going if you’re careful.”

“People have been really polarized since the war,” Abe added. “See Communists behind every tree.”

“War?” the taller passenger suddenly showed interest.

“’Nam.” he said.

“And you have been in this Nam?”

“Corpsman,” Abe grunted. “It was brutal.”

“And what is that? A corpsman?” asked Herman, offering some chips to Mette, who politely declined.

“Medical.” Abe seemed unwilling to elaborate. A look of pain crossed his face.

“So you did not fight in Nam. A coward.” The greater god looked dismissive.

Mette bristled. “You are rude! And uneducated!” she cried.

Herman pushed himself hard against his seat, gritting his teeth as if bracing himself for an explosion.

The god smiled. “You have much spirit.”

“And you have a lot of nerve! Do you know that Abe was wounded in Vietnam twice? That he saved dozens of lives?”

Abe put his hand on Mette’s knee. “We don’t like violence. But we acknowledge its existence. Maybe it’s inevitable. But we do what we can to repair the damage, and put things back the way they belong.”

The greater god was silent while the younger one squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “How do you spend your days now that you’re not at war?” he asked.

“Abe is studying Linguistics at Stony Brook,” said Mette. “And I’m getting my certification in Social Work. How about you two?”

Herman glanced at the other. “We… maintain things.”

“Like trucks or heavy machinery?”

“Much larger things,” said the greater god.

The cabin was quiet for a while. Abe slid a tape into the 8-track and played a Jefferson Airplane album. Mette sang along. One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small. And the ones that mother gives you, don’t do anything at all. Go ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall. Her voice was warm and confident.

“How much longer until we reach Hunting?” asked Herman.

“No more than fifteen miles. We’ll need to gas up there. We’re almost dry.”

“We will contribute,” said the greater god.

The miles slid by the way country miles do. The road was edged with sumac and mountain laurel. Woodchucks and rabbits ignored them from the ditches by the roadside, and cows watched them from behind wire fences with dull curiosity. Tall cumulus let through the occasional sunbeam as the rain lessened, making the droplets on oaks and maples sparkle like gems. At length, the way grew wider, the trees and fields gave way to farmhouses and bungalows, and a small town materialized around them.

Abe stopped the minibus by an ancient gas pump in front of a General Store. The proprietor sat on the porch smoking an honest-to-goodness corncob pipe.

“Fill ‘er up, please?” Abe asked.

The store owner barely glanced at them. He spat on the ground. “You goin’ to the thing down by Yasgur’s farm?”

“Yes,” Metis said. “Woodstock.”

He glared at them. “We don’t serve no hippies.”

Herman slid open the door of the van. “That’s hardly courteous of you, sir,” he said, walking out and examining the wares inside the store.

The store owner spat again. “Not gonna sell nothin’ to you. Get the fuck out.”

“I suppose we’ll have to take our custom elsewhere.”

“No one in town is gonna serve any goddamn long-haired Commie queers. Get going.” He reached behind his chair and pulled out a shotgun. “Get!”

Abe looked at the man, “But we really need gas! We’re just about empty!”

The store owner shook his shotgun.

Herman touched Abe’s shoulder. “Come. We’ll find something. We don’t need to deal with loutish hayseeds.” He said it just loud enough for the owner to hear.

Abe sighed and got behind the wheel. From the back seat Herman reached over Abe’s shoulder and tapped the fuel gauge with his finger. The needle jumped to Full.

“See!” Herman exclaimed cheerfully. “It was just a little stuck.” He reached into his pockets and pulled out packages of beef jerky, Snickers bars, four apples, a small box of needles, and a handful of jelly beans. “I wonder how these got here?” he asked.

Mette frowned, but Abe grinned broadly. “Someone must have liberated them.”

Herman laughed and slapped him on the back.

The van struggled up a steep hill. But suddenly Abe pulled over to the side of the road.

“Now that’s really strange!” he said, pursing his lips. “From up here we ought to see that town, Hunting, behind us. But it looks like there’s only a big lake down there! Must be an optical illusion or something.”

“No,” said the man purporting to be Herman’s father. “Hunting is gone. It is no more than they deserve.”

“What!”

“The lake drowns the site of that ungenerous town. A new town sits on the far shore.”

Mette trembled. “But what happened to all the people?”

“They never existed. They are erased. The new town is Lake Huntington. May its people remember to be kinder to strangers.”

Abe turned and stared at him. “You’re high!”

“Let’s get going,” said Herman.

Parking was impossible. More than half a million people packed into the fields around Yasgur’s dairy farm. The sleepy town of Goshen normally had a population of only 7000 souls. Abe and Mette finally found a spot by the edge of a cornfield more than five miles from the event. They hoisted their tent and camping gear onto their backs and set out on a rugged hike across cow pastures, through hedgerows and forests of birch and fir, maple and sumac, Their way was strewn with house-sized boulders dropped haphazardly in the last glaciation. Their guests carried no backpacks nor any other gear, and wore only sandals as they trudged through cruel blackberry thickets and jagged slate. Herman appeared to have an extraordinary sense of direction, and somehow found the easiest paths, the broken fences, and surprising shortcuts. Along the way they feasted on ripe sun-warmed blueberries. Herman plucked them greedily. His father simply held his hand under the bushes and waited while the berries eagerly flew into his palm.

At length they found themselves milling around in a swarm of thousands of excited concert-goers, all dressed in tie-dyed tee-shirts and loose dresses, long hair, long beards, and every sort of decoration and jewelry, all waiting to enter by the makeshift gates. Herman, smiling brightly (and somewhat wickedly) shook Abe’s hand and gave Mette a perhaps-too-intimate hug.

“I thank you for the ride, for your delightful company, and most of all for your kindness,” he said.

His father turned to them and bowed his head in odd formality. “We shall see each other again,” he said.

“Well, that would be nice,” Abe began, “but it’s a big crowd.”

But his two passengers were gone.

The festival was due to start the next day, but hundreds of people were partying all around Abe and Mette’s campsite; there was any amount of singing (more and less melodiously), guitar-playing (more and less competently) and smoking (more and less legally). In any case, there was no hope of sleeping. It was a hot night, too. The mosquitoes were enjoying a feast of exposed flesh. There was laughter all around.

And screaming.

Abe was anxiously attuned to screams of pain from his time on the battlefield. He pushed through the inebriated crowd, searching for the source of the agony. Partiers in various states of undress blocked him and pushed back at him, invited him to dance, to partake in alcohol, reefers and LSD. At one point he was almost certain he saw Herman dancing and passing a bottle around in a gaggle of naked women, but the tide of celebrants soon washed him away from the little copse where he thought he saw them dancing.

Still following the cries of pain, he found himself in a hedgerow where a small cluster of young women in peasant blouses blocked his view. Someone lay flat on the ground. Edging closer, he saw that they were surrounding a very pregnant woman in labor and she was screaming in pain. The women around her were burning incense and chanting and rubbing fragrant oils on her belly.

“Are any of you midwives?” Abe asked. The cluster of women didn’t seem to know what they were doing.

“Get away!” one stern young girl said. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. “This is the affair of the Great Mother. Men pollute its sanctity.”

“I hope you’ll excuse my unholy male presence,” Abe said sarcastically. “But from what I can see, none of you have delivered a child before.”

The stern girl glared at him. But Abe’s training took over. “Please boil some water at your campfire. We don’t need a lot. Do you have any alcohol?”

“We’re not getting drunk!” one girl said.

Abe sighed. “For sterilizing. Your friend is having a difficult labor. The baby might be breech.”

The child was breech. It took Abe hours to help with the delivery. By that time a small crowd had gathered around them. By 3:00AM a baby boy was born into the world. The mother was too exhausted to thank him, but he certainly didn’t expect the girls surrounding her to chase him away so they could commence with “sacred female mysteries”. Shrugging, he turned away from the knot of women. A few people cheered, and one man slapped him on the back. But it was late, the celebrations were mostly dying down, and he was very tired.

Stumbling back to his campsite, he looked around for Mette, but she wasn’t in the tent. He found her some yards away by a dying campfire. A young man’s head was in her lap, and she was whispering to him and stroking his hair. Abe stood by watching.

“Bad trip,” she whispered to him. “He took some LSD. And possibly speed. Go back to the tent. He doesn’t need any more stimulation. I’ll see you there in a few hours.”

He nodded and went back to his tent, throwing himself on his sleeping bag. In the morning Mette was curled up by his side, snoring.

The next day was filled with music. Half a million people sang and danced and loved and swam and celebrated in all the many ways happy, excited humans can. On toward 10:00PM it began to drizzle and the revelry dampened with the weather. Tempers flared. By midnight it was announced that the program would be cut short by four hours. Joan Baez sang We Shall Overcome, but nothing could overcome the rain; thousands of people went to their tents disappointed.

Abe helped out in the medical tent. There were a few broken arms and legs, several abrasions and two more births, luckily attended by well-trained doctors. There were a few more overdoses and any number of bad acid trips. Mette did what she could for their spinning panic. But Abe was becoming more and more aware of an almost religious awe growing inside himself. He had been in Vietnam, had seen horrors and abominations, bombings and airborne poisons, throngs of sufferers, destroyed limbs, blinded faces: the stuff of nightmares. But here were half a million people, clustered together tighter than any ghetto or POW camp, and no violence. No violence.

Sunday, when Woodstock was beginning to wind down, Abe and Mette heard a scuffle and the sound of angry voices outside their tent. Mette poked her head out, only to see Herman, surrounded by three very angry men. She walked out to them.

“What seems to be the trouble?” she asked calmly.

“Stay out of it!” one man growled. “This is none of your business!”

“You’re making quite a scene.”

“This fucker made out with my girlfriend!” growled a huge bear-like man.

“Do you think she chose him willingly?”

“What the fuck difference does that make?” He roughly shoved her away.

Abe, seeing Mette being manhandled, rushed out, half-dressed, strode to her side. “What seems to be the trouble, guys? No need to be shoving people.”

A shorter man cried, “Asshole stole my wallet!”

Herman smiled infuriatingly.

A tall, emaciated man with long greasy hair said, “Bastard stole my weed!” and took a swing at Herman.

Abe stepped in and blocked the blow with his shoulder.

“Guys! Friends! This whole scene, this concert, this movement, is about peace. You’re fucking it up! We can be better…”.

He never saw it when the bear-like man came up from behind and bashed his head with a log.

He woke up in his van with his head on Mette’s lap. She was holding an ice-pack against the back of his head. Herman and his father were sitting quietly in the back.

“Didja get the number of that truck?” he said weakly.

“You are a big idiot,” said his wife, with anger and love. “When are you going to learn to watch your back?”

Herman touched the back of Abe’s head. The man felt his pain dissipate like water draining from a pitcher.

“You were wounded defending me,” said Herman.

Abe smiled. “Yeah. I guess. But you sure know how to get yourself into trouble.”

Herman’s father shook his head. “That is not important. They could never have hurt him.”

“It seems pretty important to me!” Mette growled, stroking Abe’s forehead. “He could have been killed!”

“Not important,” the lion-coated man repeated. “What is important is that he, and you, felt how the Earth and the Worlds needed to move, and you tried to push them that way. This is rare. And it is precious.”

“And painful,” Abe moaned.

“And stupid!” Mette added.

The greater god looked at them solemnly. “You will never again be physically hurt protecting and maintaining again,” he said. “You are now Warded. You are protected. Ways that are closed to others will be open to you. The Worlds are still too heavy for you to move alone. But there are others. Few, but essential. They nudge, they provide the tiny impetus, to keep the Worlds going as they are instructed to do. They call themselves the subtle government, for they are hidden. And you now have a place among them.”

Abe frowned. “Who are you? What are you talking about?”

Herman smiled at them with more than a hint of sly humor. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to.”

But his father said, “In time you will come to know your paths. You will discover your names and talents and colleagues. You need only follow your natures.”

“But…” Abe started to say, but when he turned around Herman and his father were gone.

It was a long drive back to the City, but they never needed to refuel.