Just the inner circle this time, they’d come back to the beach to participate in a ritual involving much antiphonal chanting about preparing for the coming dark by embracing the darkness within them. “What season is coming?” Isis intoned. “The season of shadows,” chanted the women. “Where are the shadows?” sang Isis. “Within us,” chanted the women. “Goddess of darkness,” Isis prayed, “find us in your cave.” The landscape had changed appallingly over the past weeks. Shivering in the clammy salt air, Martha felt as if she were visiting a beloved invalid who’d taken a horrid turn for the worse. The vegetation looked stepped-on, brownish, jellied, translucent. Who would believe that sane people once swam in that inky sea? Isis turned from the ocean to the celebrants on shore. “The season of grief is coming, the melancholy time. We must accept the sadness but not let sorrow overwhelm us.” Overhead, a vee of geese-honked concurringly. Really, thought Martha, trying to keep up one’s spirits would be like grabbing a broom and trying to sweep the waves back into the sea.
