The Temple of Cybele

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This month, we return to Verda Smedley's novel "Ancestral Airs", with a sample from Part II...

Part II: The Life Givers

Chapter 1

I am Gobetween, Twilight Woman of the Greihound, bred to the wild pack to snatch Thorn Arrow for my clan. I am the celestial bride and twin sister of Moondog, mapmaker of the Dreamtime, magician of the Infinite Present.

The path of the Illimitable led the Greihound back to the birth of summer and the osculation of their mother's clans. Moondog and I, split apart by the order were left with only the holy hope that on the Day of Gathering Bones the membrane that separated six millennia would rupture again reuniting us in the Winter Wait.

The people caught up in the events of Moondog's summer sally failed to notice his unsanctified breaches of protocol that propelled him into the garden temple of my life. I watched him struggle to sustain a corporeal image in my world, dissipating in the frustration of his lack of stamina to do so. He appeared again and again and I enticed into the possibility helped open the path, my eyes giving form to his spirit.

He stands at the gate. Nonchalance fails to hide the fatigue borne from the exertion of manifestation. Fancy clothes, skins, furs and trinkets, can't conceal the scars of his lustrated flesh, badges of the clans who had harvested a piece of him for their own empowerment. I ask,

Are you an apparition or an affirmation? Old Dog Dreaming Woman spun the spell that silenced my desolate wonder about you and validated the suspicion that you had a hand in everything I would become. Evocator, you have always been uncomfortably close, poised for the stumble that would free my spirit to your embrace. And now having done so I am left with a longing to hurry through my life, hungering only to fall to dust to be with you.

As he passes through the gate, his primoprimitive mien transmutates to dressed hides as fine as old brocade. Dark brown hair, the color of which was silver only moments ago, flows defiantly from beneath a round, embroidered cap. Six flags flutter from his long, striped vest, four of which are Greihound, two, inexplicable clues. Sacred colors glisten in his seductive, mischievous eyes. With an overstated sweep he doffs his hat and bows from the waist. Shaken, I stand fast to face him.

Snared by the web of the Ancient Ones, I, resigned to the futility of escaping their grasp, conceded to fuel the fire that drives you. Woven into madness I exchanged the pursuit of comprehension for the peace of acceptance that I had fallen prey to an opportunist. Now you appear as the Clown that I believed you to despise. Is your challenge of my resolve designed to enlighten or provoke?

You invade my utterly ordinary sleep should it turn innocent and erotic, beyond the reach of my will. Long, dirty hair hangs off your entire body in matted clumps. Grotesque! You lunge at the man in my dream as though he poses an unprecedented threat (to me or to you?). Snarling, you drawn back your lips to expose rotten teeth, projectile drool indicates there is no limit to your rage. My lover flees in abject terror. You are always watching me from the fog, aren't you, determined to have all of my dreams for yourself. You have an intimidating reach, but you don't scare me anymore. I know you. A hint of arrogance colors your self-assured smile. Time for you to vaporize.

Moondog comes into my sleep again like a soft, cooing dove extending a branch of peace. He draws my attention to the Chaos within the achillea, lilies and wormwood guiding me into the sacred ring until I am placed at the center of all of it. My voice gives away my capitulating heart.

I rise and fall in the ether like a spire of dust that forms and unforms in an instant, its dissolution more substantial than the dirt from which it rose. I feel you stir inside me as I squint to watch the saffron cattails shiver in an indiscernible breeze. You trick me constantly with shadows although I know, full well, you exist in the spaces between them. I slip into the void with far greater ease than the effort it takes to sustain my will. Efficaciously, I turn away from you to those few that would have me stay in this world.

See my brother crouched beyond the firelight? He pierces my heart through the smoky blessing afraid I could be stolen away from him into the mystery of this place. With each passing round he stares apprehensively through the doorway of the lodge hoping that if he licks away my tears he will deepen the union I stand prepared to abandon in order to survive.

The Keeper of the Old Way leaves to burn the burden of my life infusing my tired soul with the desire to live. Sacrosanct songs reach the purging pitch as I watch the years that consumed me rise with the smoke and disappear into the loving clutch of the Mother of all things. Drawn into the sphere my brothers press themselves tightly into the space I am allowed until the rest of the world vanishes except Clan Greihound and the misty darkness. Some with toothy grins, all with sparkling eyes exclaim, "Yes!"

The flap opens for the last time. My brothers slip back into their Dreamtime with the rush of steam released from the lodge. Moondog stirs in his sleep exhaling peaceful relief knowing that we are bound in sacred marriage and his is the only magic that moves my spirit across the Infinite Present.

I listen closely to the garden as the Mother signals the expectation of the Winter Wait. The juice of each leaf and stem ebbs back to Her bosom until nothing remains standing except hollow tubes of death and the promise of rebirth. Crisp leaves whisper in crackling rustles, "time to go, time to go...." Warm vespers, cobalt skies draw me toward the deep sleep den of my own device.

Moondog reaches out of the antiquity. As he touches my shoulder he speaks my name clearly and the dogs bark. I turn to face him, misjudging his voice for that of someone corporeal and alive. Delighting in my surprise and the attestation of his achievement he disappears into the shimmering sunlight laughing.

The Day of Gathering the Bones. I feel Moondog nearly bursting the fabric that separates our worlds, the explosive anticipation unbearable for us both. Hurry, hurry, hurry sunset. I feel the creatures of the night moving in to guard our temple from intrusion, shielding the fire from the eyes of those who do not understand but will never the less receive its blessing. I return my thanks for the garden, my clan and the union with my twin.

Hands and head pressed to the Earth I am pushed through the blackness until I am blinded by the light of my ancestral undoing.

Moondog, I beseech your soul to arise and snatch me back to the Dreamtime of the Winter Wait.

In the season of dreams I found myself amidst the jumble of boulders, seemingly asleep yet exploring and expanding. Moondog sat outside of the ring, leaning heavily against the entry dolmen, objectifying, waiting for me. My eyes were closed and yet I could extend my reach to touch his arm. I felt him smile as he rested his hand on top of mine. We were soaring.

Gathering in ourselves, we awakened stretching out the stiffness and I stepped out of the pylon into Moondog’s world. Silently, peacefully he took my hand again and we walked a few paces to the winter hunting lodge where he opened the flap and we entered piercing the smoky darkness. As my eyes adjusted the light of a small fire illuminated the surroundings. I could see that it burned at the heart of a circle formed by leafy, willow branches bound together with sinew.

In each of the four directions a smaller ring of white pebbles displayed wondrous treasures. A pouch of glittering mica and a black meteorite spilled out in the south. Hollow reeds and prayer bundles of plumes lay in repose marking the east. Provident caches of herbs congregated next to a pouch in the north. And in the west, neatly folded, I found a beautifully bizarre costume of prismatic buckskin.

Slowly I walked around the circle, amazed, even confounded by what I saw. Pausing at each white ring I knelt to examine its contents more closely, then reaching for the Earth I rubbed a small amount of dust onto my forehead. What is this? I asked. Incredulous and startled by my ineptness but smiling softly Moondog tried to conceal his surprise. He looked at me and replied. This is for your journey.

Our dreamlodge was pitched in the west and we retreated into its solitude. There locked in an entangled embrace our rhythmic breath enveloped us in deep, deep sleep. We whispered no words, shared no dreams as we drifted in the suspension of lightless, warm eternity. I don’t know how long we remained there, the Infinite Present both tangible and forever elusive, had caught us in its rapturous stillness.

When we awakened Moondog helped me dress in my new finery and gather up my medicine things. Emerging from the lodge into morning’s cold and startling brightness I could scrutinize the gaudery in which I was clad. My vesture was ancient, nearly rags in the minds of some. The hides were uncut, stitched together in a way that allowed them to hang like flags rippling in the breeze. Each fold was dyed its own unique color and tired places were reinforced with bits of bone and tokens. As I touched them I wondered who my benefactor was. Moondog’s attire was not dissimilar. Laughing out loud, I realized what a sight we had to be.

I unbraided my hair and Moondog slicked up some of the strands with red and white clay. Drying in moments, these places became as stiff as tree branches. The rest of my hair was gathered up and bound with sinew, strings of trinkets and plumes attached to the binding. We applied stripes and spirals of paint to our faces and Moondog plopped an odd little hat on my head. I snugged up my tunic with the semblance of a belt and tied on my receptacles of magic from the willow ring. Were there any beauty left in either of us it could no longer be detected, replete shrouded by the absurd.

Moondog packed up our dreamlodge and hoisted it onto his back. We moved toward the head of the trail that descended into the gorge and joined up with the Life Blood that led us to the camp of the Twilight Women. The first Death Clan ritual of the Winter Wait was pressing and required our participation. After that, it would be on to the world of women’s magic and the Shadowland.

Our hike down the mountain seized me with tremors of exhilaration. The trail and its pungent aroma of wet, fallen leaves were deeply familiar. I rejoiced in meeting up with trees, rock formations and elemental configurations, each proverbial and cognizant of my presence. They were old friends, the memory of whom was burned into my heart forever. I touched them tenderly and pressed my ear to them, catching whispers of secrets and conscious affection. As my pace caught the rhythm of ecstasy Moondog spoke quietly. The Greihound were as anxious to be with me again as I was excited to be reunited to them. But many things had changed.

Spirit Chalk had left and Bird Chant moved naturally into position of artist elder. His new apprentice was a Dogwood boy. Burnt Knife’s apprentice, Blue Ice, had disappeared. Moondog had been sacrificed to the Bards who had stolen him into their sacred way. Moondog paused, allowing my mind to catch up to his words. The news was tragic and yet at first I didn’t grasp the scope. He continued.

It wasn’t unexpected that Thorn Arrow had taken Moondog’s place as elder dreamer or that he selected Longbow as his apprentice. A Bearberry boy had replaced Longbow as stand-by. But it was the loss of Blue Ice that triggered cataclysmic change.

Instead of conscripting a new Greihound, Burnt Knife chose Thorn Arrow to be the apprentice that would move one day to position of Alpha Male. Longbow became elder dreamer and the Bearberry boy his apprentice. Then a Poplar boy had been discovered and became our stand-by. I suddenly realized that although Moondog had been appropriated into Bardic tradition I was still the Greihound Twilight Woman. Longbow was my dreaming twin and the Bearberry boy my understudy. He, not Thorn Arrow would be conjoined to Glowing Stone when she was of age.

My mind was reeling. I didn’t know what made me assume I would just tag along with Moondog into his new life without any further commitment to the Greihound. I was wholly alarmed with the idea of dreaming with Longbow, he being far more attractive than with which I really wanted to cope. If I ever thought that Moondog and I would live some quiet, spirited life together, I was hopelessly naïve. In fact, I held enormous commitments to my clan, the Twilight Women, and Death Clan medicine in general. I was equally obligated as Moondog’s companion in the Bardic world and required to embrace the enormity of it. Moondog and I had to learn that magic and work it together as a single soul.

As a Bard Moondog’s attachment to the Twilight Women would become increasingly more enmeshed as these two groups were traditionally inseparable. No longer would he enjoy the singular responsibility to one dreaming woman but would become intrinsically involved with all of them. Destiny had dressed him as the Sacred Clown, consociate to Death Clans and Bardic magician in secret women’s rituals. And there was no imagining the designs Darkling Light or the Crones had on us.

In fact, our lives had become spiritual marathons. It didn’t matter if our obligations were individual or mutual, Moondog and I would endure them together. And in doing so we would walk hundreds and hundreds of miles crisscrossing the Holy Mother until we had cloaked Her beauty with the mantle of our journey.

We emerged from the woods and could see the Twilight Women’s lodge in the distance. Sun streamed into the compound and at its center a stout fire burned. Ringing its perimeter sat my clan awaiting our arrival. When we were in view they stood and faced us.

Burnt Knife smiled and I embraced him, a gesture maybe too personal, even inappropriate. Surprised and perhaps at first embarrassed his grin broadened and he laughed. I think he actually looked younger. A master of adaptation Burnt Knife no doubt thrived in the atmosphere of change.

Star Stalker took the cue and embraced me first. In spite of his passing years he had become increasingly more virile, his arms were incredibly strong and they held me tightly. I couldn’t reach around his barrel shaped stature and imagined that a bear was crushing me. By the time he released me I was startled and out of breath.

Next stood Bird Chant. He gently took both my hands and drew me to him. Bird Chant had the clearest spirit of any man I had ever known. Utterly at peace, I had no difficulty believing he was an immortal, as had been rumored. He knew more songs than anyone alive did and had no doubt brought most of them from other lives. The beauty of his voice was heart wrenching. It was deep and resonant while it carried the melodic chortle of water softly moving over rocks in a shallow stream. I found it captivating, confounding, a conduit into Eternity.

Thorn Arrow; his beauty was stunning but his vivid blue eyes were remarkably tired. I thought I detected a few silver streaks amidst the otherwise shocking blonde that crowned his head and hung passed his shoulders. Unlike Burnt Knife the challenges of rapid change made Thorn Arrow look much older. Nevertheless, his smile was openly affectionate and he put his arms around me.

Shadow Glass was Star Stalker’s apprentice. Like Bird Chant he exuded the peacefulness of an old soul. Change had not come to his life or Star Stalker’s, they as steady and unaffected as the Old Granite Range itself. He smiled shyly but his embrace was warm and genuine. His demeanor didn’t allow me to linger, placing me before Longbow.

He looked down at me, deep into my absolute essence, prolonging the moment. I had to look away. I was blushing! I simply couldn’t control the attraction, making Longbow smile and Moondog petulant. Longbow and I were now the Dreaming Twins of Clan Greihound. Passion alone made us a superb match.

Last I stood before the three new faces of Bearberry, Poplar and Dogwood. All of them were incredibly young, fifteen or sixteen at the very oldest. Burnt Knife had certainly exhibited the prowess borne from a long, spiritual life. His final investment for the Greihound would be in the vitality of youth. It was an astounding thing unto itself that he not only found them but persuaded them to join us as well. None had even petitioned to be runners and had remained shrouded by their mother’s clans regardless of their ritual conception. The fact that the clan had provided for them was never a guarantee that they’d ever propitiate. There was little doubt that Burnt Knife had remained intimately involved with them since their birth, studying their propensities. His influence was visible in each of their faces.

I was surprised to see Poplar blood standing among the Greihound. Their gentle protectiveness was legendary but so was their singular preoccupation with creativity. Although genuinely generous with their knowledge of poplar medicine they otherwise remained utterly involved in their own world. Poplar women rarely expressed an interest in anything outside of that believing their devotion to their work was the single best effort they could make for the benefit of our people. A Poplar woman entering into ritual death spasm with the Greihound was greatly unexpected. Moondog whispered that the Poplar boy bore a startling resemblance to the Wild Women of the Forest. He was small, dark, and had inscrutable black eyes. The depth of his instantaneous awareness of everything and everyone around him was uncanny and complete. And yet he was exceedingly polite and genuinely respectful without a trace of suspicion, traits readily attributed to poplar. He was called Moon Shadow.

Burnt Knife had made a wonderful choice when he selected the Dogwood boy for the Greihound. His blood contained powerful medicine that would bind him to our clan for life. Dogwood loyalty was mythic and probably enchanted. They were inherently protective and fully invested in the hopes of others. Dogwood devotion to resolving desperate Greihound needs was vital and this boy would stand by them forever. He was called Sings-in-Trees.

(~ End of the first half of Chapter 1 ~)

We will present the conclusion of this chapter next month... in the meantime, if you would like to email the author with any questions or comments, just click on this link:

Email Verda Smedley

Priestess Jean