The Tale of the Ravaged Mountain (wildfires)

The wildfire did not arrive as a single event, but as a series of moments—some lived in action, others only felt much later. These pieces belong to that unfolding.

There was once a Medicine Woman who lived in a village high in the mountains of Cyprus. She did not come from these parts; she hailed from a much colder climate and had only recently made this village her home. She did not yet know many of the folk, having been occupied with settling into her new house and navigating the long, drawn-out legalities of emigrating — the slow work of turning another place into home.

The Medicine Woman loved her new village and the people who inhabited it. Though they spoke in a strange tongue to her ears, their kind eyes and open smiles caused her heart to swell with gratitude for such immediate acceptance of her unfamiliar presence.

One of her favourite pastimes was walking the mountain road from her house down to the river. She arrived in the village in May, when the riverbed was dry as bone and the land already parched by the sun’s rays and the dry, dusty wind that so often blew through. The solitude of these walks — the absence of noise — was a soothing balm for her slightly frazzled nerves and tired mind. Here, she knew she could scream, sing, or chant without being heard.

Just seven weeks after the Medicine Woman had settled into this tranquil new way of life, a wildfire broke out. It happened on a particularly windy day. The fire, first noticed on the far horizon, roared and travelled with terrifying unpredictability, changing direction without warning. Just one hour after first seeing it, the village Mukhtar (mayor) called for everyone to evacuate.

A week later, it was deemed safe for the Medicine Woman to return. Her village had become the second most fire-damaged village in the 135 square kilometres the wildfire ravaged. As she drove higher up the mountain, the smell of soot clung to her nostrils. With a heavy heart, she saw the mountains that once made her heart sing now laden with ash. The landscape felt alien — and yet heartbreakingly familiar.

In the village, many houses had been burned down or severely damaged. Miraculously, her own house remained unscathed. Still, the sight of the destroyed homes — and the knowledge of the suffering endured by the villagers — weighed heavily on her heart. Many had stayed behind to fight the fire or refused to leave their homes, enduring danger, toxic air, loss of electricity and water.

There was support from the government in the form of food and water parcels and air purifiers. The electricity board installed a generator for the village, which was turned off between 8am and 12am to allow crucial repair work to take place. There were also frequent visits from strangers in suits carrying clipboards, assessing damage and devising ways to prevent such devastation in the future.

The people of the village were good, decent, hardworking, and generous by nature. Orthodox in their faith, they lived among several churches whose bells rang out with beautiful tones throughout the week. Many leaned deeply into God, praying earnestly for the restoration of the village and the land. For others, their faith was sorely tested. A frequent lament of the village shop owner was, “How could God let this happen to me?” Some reacted with disdain — some because they harboured the same thoughts but dared not voice them, others because they were shocked that anyone could believe God to be so vindictive.

The Medicine Woman ached for the grief of the villagers. She ached for the ruined houses that were once warm, cosy homes — places where windows glowed with welcoming light in the evening, where laughter spilled out alongside the aromas of cooking, hinting at the daily hum of family life within. She ached for the savage destruction of the land and all that had once been familiar.

The Medicine Woman had a deep relationship with all that surrounded her. She knew what she must do.

She took her prayer necklace, a bottle of water, and several small items from her home — petals from her plants, small gemstones, and sugar to sprinkle. Clad in shorts, a T-shirt, and walking boots, with a rucksack on her back (no flowing robe or magic wand here), she set off on her usual walk down to the river.

As she walked, she set her intention to speak words of love and healing to the land. She had already spoken these words into her prayer necklace. At intervals along the path, she stopped to press the necklace — charged with the vibration of her words — into the ground. She sprinkled sugar and water, and sometimes left a small gemstone behind. She did this to remind the land that it was loved. That it was beautiful. That the rains would come and it would be verdant again. That whether in richness or destitution, the relationship never changed. It was one of love and deep gratitude.

The Medicine Woman could see the fecundity of the land — past and future. The land was not an object; it was the Great Mother: Sofia, Gaia, Pachamama. She remembered its generosity — the orange, lemon, and olive groves, the vineyards, the almond and walnut trees. She recalled the birds and insects, the beehives that were now no more. Her heart was not heavy on this walk, for she did not wish to burden the land further. This was a walk of recognition — of its greatness, its resilience, its strength. This was a land where vegetation grew despite the lack of rain. It knew hardship, yet it thrived regardless.

The Medicine Woman and the land waited a long time for the rains to finally fall. And as she writes this now, the river is flowing and there are signs of new vegetation. But the walk was not done in the belief that it would make the rain come. No. It was done because a sentient being — the land — was hurting, and the heart of the Medicine Woman wished to remind it of its greatness.

What — or who — in your life is hurting and needs to be spoken into?

It might even be your beautiful self.

The wildfire did not arrive as a single event, but as a series of moments—some lived in action, others only felt much later. These pieces belong to that unfolding.