he shortest day of the year comes at the end of December. Immediately afterward, the day begins to grow again — a phenomenon observed since ancient times, giving rise to countless stories about the birth of a new Sun. Today, the winter solstice is fixed on December 21, but in archaic societies it was celebrated around December 25. The Ancient East knew many rituals dedicated to a goddess, a kind of bringer of light into the world, and the rites devoted to Mithra, one of the most important pre-Christian deities, were also held on December 25. In Rome, this day was dedicated to the unconquered Sun (Dies Solis Invicti Nati), preceded by the carnival of the Saturnalia, celebrations of reversal and change.
In our own lands there are also traces of a feminine deity, celebrated at this time, during the turbulent third century — a domna, a title given to divinities.
And since myths never truly disappear, I began searching for the traces of this solstitial fairy, perhaps buried beneath layers of symbols, time, and decay. That search led me once again to Consânzeana, who appears obsessively in the most varied contexts — from fairy tales to incantations and carols — as an astral goddess, born in the realm of the dead yet deeply entangled in the affairs of the living. Considered a lunar deity, descended from Sancta Diana and from another pagan prototype (as noted by Vasile Pârvan and Mircea Eliade), she preserves her powers even within Christianity. She appears associated both with the Sânziene and with Christmas, as a guardian of the solstitial gates. Even her name sounds like a refrain from a spell.
From among the many fairy tales, I chose one collected by Hasdeu in 1885, in the village of Uscați, Neamț County. It is by far one of the strangest tales, for here Ileana Consânzeana appears as the ruler of a luminous land from the other world.
No one can reach that land, because at its borders stands this woman endowed with superhuman powers. Beautiful and fragile under ordinary circumstances, in moments of danger she transforms into a monster. More precisely, through an ancient spell, she takes the form of three gigantic, winged women — though when necessary, she could multiply endlessly.
Anyone who dared cross the boundary was swallowed with lightning speed, and soon afterward the bones of the unfortunate emerged from the backs of the giant women. For this reason, near the border lay the White Valley, so named because of the bones that whitened the place.
This beautiful and cruel Consânzeana was loved by Păjuroiul. Do not imagine a bird of prey — he was the emperor of all birds and the master of Time itself. He lived in a gigantic tree with twelve branches, like the twelve months or the twelve spokes of the zodiac wheel. Its crown reached the sky, and on every leaf rose golden palaces and citadels. The tree stood at the very center of the land guarded by Consânzeana.
Păjuroiul was an imposing figure, dressed in costly garments — velvet and silk — with shoes of fine leather, and on his golden beak shone an emerald stone. His voice was pleasant, like the rustling of distant forests.
But Consânzeana loved the solitude of her almost deserted domain, and beyond guarding the boundary, nothing else existed.
Păjuroiul glided elegantly above the land, while Ileana pretended not to see him. Not even by accident did she cast him a glance. She walked firmly toward the border, and her golden hair, spread across the entire estate, released a fragrance that shattered the calm of the gallant Păjuroiul.
He ruffled his feathers to the rhythm of his sighs, while she hurled poisoned arrows with every movement, forcing him to retreat into the foliage of his tree. He had no chance and could see no end to this drama. And don’t tell me you don’t sympathize with him just because he was Păjuroiul! He had such refinement in his gestures, such a delicate way of speaking, that I assure you, you would have liked him.
He made a habit of observing all of Consânzeana’s movements from above, carefully counting the moments, as his duty required. Observation and patience are worthy virtues, from which joy and priceless reward may spring.
One day, Păjuroiul made a discovery that would change his destiny: he realized that all the boldness of the winged fairy came from a magic ring. It made her powerful and merciless. Once she placed it on her finger, nothing in the world pleased her anymore; she could no longer love.
To avoid unnecessary prolongation, Păjuroiul spread his wings and flew to her chamber at midday, and when his beak touched the ring, Consânzeana was enveloped in the mist of human passions.
And since the boundary was no longer guarded with vigilance, many heroes set out toward the land of that world, hoping to free its mistress. Thus we may say that all the tales about Consânzeana were written afterward — after her adventure with Păjuroiul, who holds Time itself in his claws.
And tomorrow, with every minute that makes the day grow longer, you too will receive a drop of his desires.
In LIBERTATEA
