Hunters and Gatherers Read Free

smoke. She thrust out her cigarette lighter so that Martha couldn’t help but observe: on both sides were holograms of a Hindu deity.
    “I live in an Indian neighborhood!” Martha volunteered. “Lexington and Twenty-eighth.” On holidays her landlord’s children brought Martha trays of neon-colored sweets topped with shreds of silver foil, agony on her fillings.
    “It’s Kali, the destroyer Goddess,” said Hegwitha. “Perfect for a lighter. I know the Goddess religion is supposed to be nonhierarchical. Power’s not supposed to matter, we’re all priestesses together. But what do you do about someone like Isis who’s so incredibly special? Not only is she a really centered priestess-shaman healer, she was a heavy-duty academic philosopher before there was Women’s Studies and the only females on campus were secretaries and dieticians. She knows everybody. She knew Mother Teresa before she was even famous. Of course, when we meet in covens in someone’s house we’re all equal together, but I guess in a group this size that could get pretty out of control.”
    At that moment, Isis lifted one hand and tentatively wiggled her fingers, as if waving at someone who might not be the person she thought. Within seconds, the women had all joined hands and formed a circle.
    Hegwitha’s hand grasped Martha’s, its hot, damp pressure firm enough to keep Martha from bolting. When escape no longer seemed possible, Martha felt a lurch of queasy terror that the group would do something embarrassing that she would be forced to do, too.
    “It’s all right,” Hegwitha was saying. “This ceremony is really loose. It’s just about feeling the spirit in every living thing. You don’t even have to believe in the Goddess—or in anything, for that matter.”
    The women fell silent and shut their eyes. Martha kept hers open but found it too upsetting to witness the expressions of great strain or great peace. She closed her eyes and felt herself gradually unclenching. Then Hegwitha hissed, “This is about getting centered,” and every muscle tensed again.
    After that, Martha waited fretfully until the women raised their joined hands and cried, “Yo!” and burst out laughing.
    “Blessed be,” Isis Moonwagon said.
    “Blessed be,” the women chorused.
    Several women glided along the inside of the circle. In their outstretched arms they carried abalone shells from which smoldering incense sent up clouds of smoke. A deserty smell of burning sage drifted over the beach.
    And now, it seemed, Martha had progressed from junior high dances to high school parties. She recalled marijuana smoke wafting up from finished basements and the chill of dread she felt going down those carpeted steps. She smoked dope from water pipes along with everyone else, but never got high enough to laugh at the puzzling jokes or to marvel at the farfetched connections everyone thought so amazing.
    The sun was setting rapidly. Martha imagined Gretta’s parents waiting for her for dinner, keeping warm a comforting pot of veal paprikás and dumplings.
    Suddenly Martha shivered. Oh dear God, it was autumn. Why did autumn evenings always make her think that the rest of the world was cozy and happy at home or dressing to go to parties to which she wasn’t invited?
    Four robed women set a card table in front of Isis and, with the feline grace of stagehands, covered it with a red cloth and an array of objects: a shell, a branch, an animal skull, fruit, feathers, candles, statuettes, a blue glass vase stuffed with dried flowers. Bowing her head, Isis joined her hands so her fingertips pointed down. Then she stepped in front of the table, knelt, and scooped up some sand.
    “I call upon the Goddess of the west, the Goddess of the earth,” she chanted.
    In unison the women repeated, “I call upon the Goddess of the west, the Goddess of the earth.” Isis tossed the sand into the air, and the women said, “Blessed be.”
    Isis said, “I salute the Goddess of the