Most men fear the Dark Mother. Her's is the Final Embrace that cannot be escaped. Her maniac laughter floats above every battlefield and funeral pyre. Her death rattle echos in the shadowy spaces between worlds. Her's are the glamorous spirits of the air, the castrating witches devouring men's genitalia, drinking blood, weaving shrouds, wandering the labyrinths of the dead, passing freely from the world above to the world below, flying as crow, or dragon, raven, or bat, crawling as spider, slithering as snake. She is the Death Goddess riding Nightmare, swooping down to pluck dying souls and carry them to the Land of the Dead. Her's is the sweet Kiss of Death, taking the Final Breath, and death in Her arms can be ecstatic. Her's is the Power to re-birth souls, for She is also the Keeper of the Sacred Fires and Stirrer of the Cauldron, the Vessel of Life. She is Spirit Pruner and Time Watcher, destroying the old that new life might grow. She is the Repository of Wisdom, the Weaver of Dreams, the sweet mistress of all that florishes in velvet nights. Her's is the instinctual earthy aspect of the Feminine, the blood that flows between our thighs, the primal, wordless state of being that connects women to the Goddess in Her orgiastic rites, riding to the very edge, throbbing, pulsating, flesh-tearing, sexual abandon. Hecate, Kali, Durga, Lla-Mo, Mictecacihuatl, Spear-Finger, Baba-Yaga. She leads us down into Darkness, into the Nightmare Land. But, Darkness is also the Womb where life begins, for without winter stillness, no seeds could grow, and even in the depths of the darkest winter night can be felt the promise of a warm summer breeze.