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When Our Virgin Mother is a girl born of Ancient Immortals, She has no inkling She will become Queen of Heaven, that She will pop out the Twins, that for Her own peace of mind and the sanity of the world She will separate Them, that She will inaugurate an exchange system of having one boy beside Her in Heaven and the other safely tucked away inside the earth. Each cycle becomes an Age. There are so many Ages now She has lost track, not that She ever makes much effort to keep track.
When Our Virgin Mother is a girl in the waning days of Ancient Immortals — granted, no one knows the days are waning — She is gifted a fox kit She dearly loves. The two of T/them come of age (meaning a personal age) together — a virgin-born Immortal and a vixen born of fox wisdom. It is T/these two who overturn the Ancient hegemony of Heaven and return a Great Mother to the throne. But that is another story at the end of which Virgin and Vixen go separate ways.
When Our Virgin Mother is a girl in those sweet, pre-damage days of childhood, She dreams a cloud castle room by room. It is not a structure but a sentient habitat of old-growth towers and weeping onion domes, of perfumed voices singing inside walls, of crystal chutes and flying stairwells. Doorless chambers rotate on axes strung with ringing bells. Moveable feasts rise and fall like tides on platters made of salt, while all the window glass is liquid rain. Cornices wink, plinths sprout, balconies grow and climb like twining ivy.
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When Our Virgin Mother is no more a girl — the damage done and childhood in ruins — She crowns Herself Queen. She inhabits the Palace of Her castle at the apex of Heaven where air shines with jubilation. Immortals never quit any part of what They live, so Her girlhood recycles inside a secret annex at the compound’s far wall. Vixen is there in her single-tailed youth. Nowadays they say that tricksy minx has earned nine tails and out-foxed even Death.
When Our Virgin Mother is delivered of the two fruits of Her womb, She builds two apartments, both sprawling complexes. The West Wing houses Her favorite and first born, Lord Jesus. He, having recently ascended into Heaven to sit at Her right hand, is already busy ordering about the quick and the dead. The dead ignore Him. The quick can be oppositional. At Her left hand is the East Wing, lately abandoned. Her bitter son, Lord Judas, is descended into the vault of the earth where She can ignore His bellyaching. Such a trial, Her boys. Nobody ever warns You what Motherhood is really like.