The First Sister
Ember Markussen
She arrived naked. Scraps of fabric clung to her soaking back, dragging her through the tide as she tore her nails into the unknown earth. The sea thrashed her backward and forward, one endless wave of indecision. Yet she held fast. When finally the ocean had done with her, and she was sure it would not seize her from safety, she collapsed, heaving and sobbing, on the shores of Avalon.
Who knows the twists of fate that brought her here, delivered through the mists by storm or shipwreck. Whatever drove her to the water has been lost to time. How long did it take her to realize she was free of it? How many times did she walk that island, looking for aggressors and rapists, enemies of women? How must she have felt as tears of relief poured from her wracking body, as she felt safe for the first time? The small softenings of her body, the steady breathing, the clear mind. Finally, she could hear herself over the screaming in her head. Her first taste of her own power.
Slowly, the weight of life descended, and in the days that followed she made a home for herself. She dragged the biggest apple boughs into a circle, and drove them into the ground. She threshed grass from the highlands and bundled it for her roof. She set traps for fish and birds, found out the hard way which roots would sustain her. She lit a fire. She prayed.
It was prayer that brought her peace. With every dawn, she begged each goddess to spare her this miracle, this island of goodness, with its golden sunsets and ruby fruit. Had not her kin suffered enough? Had not her sisters been pursued, her daughters been torn from her, her mother cast aside? As the stars winked upon her, she thought of the women she had left behind, and asked the goddesses to send them a sign. They must know of the Isle of Apples. This magic must be shared.
Days grew easier, and she found time to learn. Reveling in the rich abundance of the island, she crafted herbal elixirs to heal everything from her lungs to her Sight. Her new cloak she dyed a deep black, to match the night sky where she searched for answers. Clay took form beneath her fingers, and she sang to the sea as she worked. As life on Avalon became routine, she began to push her skills in new directions. The goddesses whispered in her, and her body became a vessel for forces she was only beginning to understand.
Long nights passed, and she sat beside the fire, before the waves, beneath the moon, until she learned to connect. The waves became liminal spaces, shielding her from the mundane reality that humans had created. The raven lent her his wings, and she saw from a great height how small were the problems of men. And after many moons, she reached beyond the realms of sky and sea and back to the land, where she appeared before her sisters, and spoke just one word:
“Come.”
To fetch them meant taking the risk of losing herself. Yet she was not afraid. After so many cycles on Her Shores, she had come to trust herself completely. Under the light of the full moon, she took her boat and moved into the mists once more, her lips closing on a prayer, her back straight and strong. Avalon had called her. She would always find her way home.
And she did. Ferrying across a motley crew of women young and old, with only a bag of grain and a handful of potatoes to their name, she parted the mists with ease. The Goddess spoke to her, through her. And now new circles of sticks were built, new rounds appeared on the hill. New postulants thanked the spirits for their mercy and good fortune, pouring the last sip of whiskey on the highest apple tree. They were saved. Not by wind nor wave, but by each other. Each sister studied and grew, and learned to part the mists for another, and another. Each taught the skills and the lessons, held space and held power. They crafted new laws, new traditions, new selves. Around the fire, the sisters nourished each other, until every woman was full of her own sovereignty.
As the sun set on a crisp fall evening, they looked to their Morgen to begin their prayers…but the first sister could not be found. The Sisters of Avalon searched high and low, and found nothing but an apple, lying red on the shore. It lays there still, always ripe, always perfect, a reminder that if you have the strength to reach her, the Isle of Avalon will grant you wisdom, and magic.
Ember Markussen is a writer, healer, and magical being residing in Southern California. A member of the Sisterhood of Avalon since Calan Mai 2024, she devotes herself to a feminine life of creation, passion, and comfort. When not raising her two children, she writes for Enchanted Living and guides seekers through the transformative moments of their story. You can follow her at @TheStoryPriestess at all the places.
