The Illyrian Women – Part 5
{- Continuing from Part 4” {Here} -}{-there are 5 parts-}
{- prosodic short novel stone riley creative commons 2020 the creds are at bottom -}{- historical fiction, a novella of Greek religion in ancient Rome -} {- Ilyria explained.. {Here} -}
[:: Demeter’s ancient promise of divine aid seems unfulfilled, has dwindled down to 4 small words. The Priestess ponders seeking more, and she not even noticing that a different ecstasy comes on her. ::]
.. .. .. She found herself giving up the search for words until that phrase had come to her, “I am with you”.
She repeated that phrase to them. They found the barley figure and placed it in the niche and stood to sing the ancient song of thanks.
The ancient words were medicine to her. She found herself relaxing, melting, sleeping. She realized that in some way she was asleep and dreaming.
The ancient words of thanks, the sacred melody that countless souls for countless generations had intoned in this deep place, they had a healing power. She had not known there was such power in human thanks. She felt the many cruel cuts that life had dealt her knitting together now like clean small wounds.
She had a feeling similar to one sometimes in sleep when a person feels their waking self somehow awake and yet no less gives up all to the power of the dreaming soul; but it was her dreaming self awake and some other soul, a great immortal soul, to whom she willingly gave up her power so that she seemed to stand an inch or two behind her body.
She whispered the ancient prayer of praise. She found it rushing from her lips, her lips barely keeping pace, and at that time she felt the baby squirm to turn itself head downward in her womb. The other soul now in her soul smiled and very gently laughed.
That prayer was long. It listed many names by which the Lady has been known to human folk, listed too Her countless children among the goddesses and gods, described as well Her love for the inhabitants of Earth, Her sorrow at their cruelty and pain, Her longing for their joy, Her love of joy, Her love of love. Somewhere along the way the priestess began to speak of “Mine” and “I” instead of “Hers” and “She”. Also, she felt an obvious understanding of certain puzzling passages that never had seemed clear before.
The human woman felt the pangs of labor start and yet it was as though all in a dream. In truth, she was deep asleep and dreaming truth.
They made their way out to the middle chamber where they paused and fiddled with their things, then out into the light. She waited in the final shadows as she must, for she would emerge the last, but there she stood alone awhile, feeling but not feeling some contractions, leaning on a column of stone, dazzled by the flood of brightness.
But then at length she saw her big strong friend silhouetted in the light and she came out at last.
She found a most remarkable scene before her. There seemed to be a wind-song in the air that sang a welcome to herself, the Lady. The tree leaves sparkled in the breeze and they too sang, but they were the Lady herself singing in reply a phrase that chimed all through and out of her like a silver bell; “I am with you”.
Little birds were singing those words with Her voice as well, so too the stones that stood up from the Earth around, so too the soil itself, so too the crystal air and light, and something in the rippling water too intoned a deeper note in harmony.
Distant forest creatures of all kinds held up their heads to hear, then sighed and let their eyes fall shut. She beheld the crowd of people there just like the rest, just like the deer and bugs and badgers and the milkweed, and all were singing.
The water drew her then, for it looked so soothing. It seemed clear that a person bathing in that pool could let go of every ill and fear and anger. Every weariness could be refreshed. The water held a form she saw; it held a great soul.
She stared into the liquid expanse and saw a man. The Lady in her laughed and sighed to see Her lover. His face was young and old, bearded and clean. His eyes were bright and warm, framed by a clear countenance and tousled hair. His form was fully sexual. His body glowed with health.
He whispered to Her, inviting Her into His holy arms. She found herself leaning on her friend and walking to Him, full of longing for His perfect comfort there.
Her senses, already turned toward strange directions, now became completely overwhelmed. The sparkling water tickled around her feet, laved her ankles, massaged her calves with erotic fingers. The little wavelets licked her knees. A sweet perfume soaked into her.
The human woman never had known such physical pleasure. She felt a great release when the waters broke, although she did not know its cause, a great release and union with the lover of the magic spring.
Fulfilled and satisfied for that long moment, she had sat herself down, relaxed in His embrace, but soon she felt the exquisite tension rise again, recede again, mount again, in undulating waves.
Transported by this infinite joy and mercy, she had quite forgotten she was giving birth until the ultimate ecstatic thrill washed through her and washed out of her and she collapsed in utter emptiness of any further effort and a smiling old woman before her held up a newborn child.
Hundreds of people around her sang. The water was somehow relaxingly warm and had a soothing feel upon the skin.
One friend behind her held her steady, let her lean back at ease. Another friend before her held the newborn infant, half in and out of water, held it toward her, its eyes still squeezing shut, making motions with its little mouth and limbs like a sleeper who just now awoke.
She didn’t take the baby yet but washed it first, rubbing off the birthing stuff. It was a boy. Of course it was a boy. The forest omens told her it would be and now she fully understood those omens, understood the secret mystery, understood the reason why it was a boy.
The pulsing purple natal cord still ran from its little belly down inside herself.
There was a small commotion on the beach behind, a woman coming forward offering the two priestesses remaining there a length of string and knife to cut the cord. With a few hushed halting unsure modest words she was giving them a fancy lady’s silver dagger, golden braid she’d pulled off from a satin sleeve. This was their heiress, the landlord’s wife.
The cord was quickly cut. She put the baby to her breast and felt it enthusiastically begin to suck. Four squirts of milk from her other nipple of their own accord flew forth and mingled with the dappled water.
In a final easy squeeze the afterbirth was done; they quickly hid it in a dripping linen wrap. They carried her out then to the shore, to a mossy bed that some had made at the foot the singing tree.
They dried her and the newborn boy with soft cloths, very gently dabbing and massaging them like great pieces of ripe precious fruit. They covered her with a clean but ragged soft wool cloak donated from the crowd.
It was surely time for her to speak now, to address the crowd. She knew that time had come and knew exactly what to say. In fact, a certain kind of worthy pride was on her, the kind of pride which an invoking priestess or priest will often feel after a great spirit has come and gone, the kind a poet justly feels after inspiration speaks. The Lady and She would speak to them from her same lips.
With a voice remarkably clear and loud she bespoke them this:
“All you who are oppressed with illness, fear and anger; all who are sick and weary and overburdened with your load; send home for blankets. Rest here with me tonight; fast with me, bathe and drink in the holy spring. Sleep with me here tonight and dream so we may see what tomorrow brings.”
So it was done. That first night at the magic pool, the township’s women and girls refreshed themselves. Many remarked with great surprise the miraculous new subtle virtues of the water. Many were the powerful dreams they got that night from the Goddess and the God, dreams of deep comfort and wise counsel. Many awoke with illness banished, weakness vanished and old wounds healed.
The wealthy heiress woke that new morning early in the dawn, rose from her blanket on the Earth and searched for her sick daughter whom she found dancing merrily with other girls among the trees.
Next night the township’s men and boys refreshed themselves. The Chief Priestess of Demeter decreed it thus, that male and female alike should use the mysterious waters. Her women quickly devised a new ritual of fasting and prayer and song.
Her own husband awoke that second morning with new eyes in his head, blinking and looking round, and talking with a different temperate voice like no one had heard from him in years. He did not understand what happened nor did he have the slightest notion where life would lead him now, but that seemed no matter.
Her elder son awoke with different eyes and voice too, a calmer confidence in his look, a kindness in his speech. People awoke and looked around themselves and wondered.
Her new son, her third son, the magic child who was born that wonderful day; life would be a tangled web for him at first, confused by peculiar notions people had of him, wildly confused by his own relentless soul.
But he would find his proper strand of life despite all that. He would become a full true Priest of Bacchus. There had never been a true whole Bachic Priest in that corner of the world, not even one, not even since our human race had first placed foot there, for they are very rare.
As you would expect, his legacy in that little corner of our world would be very great. He would take up the burden for the people there of all the madnesses that are wrought by injustice. He would heal them with touch and talk, certainly, and with the dreaming waters of his birth. He would run the hill tops with the deer.
But best of all, he would gift the people there a deep true form of Saturnalia. To manhood grown, he would decree new laws and rituals for that topsy-turvy festival which they and their children would obey most carefully, which would make of it a real annual communal healing for their folk.
The woman herself was never quite again like before. Everyone hailed her and her women now and brought them gifts. Few were there who ever dared to stare any of them in the eyes. They had all the time they wanted now to dance and sing and pray.
She herself would use this time to seek the many faces of her Goddess, to know the One she worshiped more and more. But this new life brought with it, as it must, different burdens, different trials and worries.
The township built a temple by the warm spring pool, close by the little strand and lovely willow. Within a month they had it simply built of wood and that stood for thirty years until a proper one of stone could be designed and financed and finally erected.
It was a temple to the Goddess and Her lover son the God, with a pilgrim’s dormitory. They put a fine-wrought iron gate with a big ornamental lock and a high iron fence in front of the terrible holy cave.
The landlord came next spring to bathe and do the ritual, to sleep and dream and wake. The old soldier washed away a thousand hardened scars. That landlord took the waters and also every other landlord there for seventeen hundred years.
After a few generations came and went, they had to change some things. They found they must change the decorations on the temple and call the deities by different names. They changed the holy story too, which seemed very hard to some, but in fact it seemed no matter either.
In fact, pilgrims still came in a steady stream to walk the lovely garden paths around the pool in prayer and bathe and do the other rites as well and leave their votive gifts of grateful love; especially in autumn when, it was said, the green willow’s shade would tint the water in a certain lovely way.
In truth, all were refreshed who came with burdened yearning hearts.
~~ Finis ~~
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{-This is the end of “The Illyrian Women”-}
{-Creds.. This is from my book.. “Tales Of Men And Women”
.. .. Its overview page .. {-Here-} -}
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