Behind the Ivory Veil
12 Initiation
Tuesday, 21 June 1955, Northern England
DO I HAVE THE COURAGE?
“What must I do?” she whispered. Old Mrs. Weed patted her hand gently.
“There are no observers,” she said. “If you would watch, you must join. If you would join, you must come as the goddess entered through the gates of death.”
Rebecca caught her breath, torn between her own religious morality and the desire to know. To participate in a surviving witch cult, however, might be more than she wanted to know. She took a deep breath and tried to let it relax her.
“You mean naked?” she asked weakly.
“Naked, bound, and hobbled, led by a true member of the circle,” Mrs. Weed answered.
“Who?”
“Why, me, of course!”
Rebecca’s heart pounded. She knew in her heart that this was what she wanted, but it was terrifying.
“Only my… husband has ever seen me like that. I don’t know.” Tears ran from Rebecca’s eyes. She licked her lips and chewed upon the lower one. She could see the shadows at the top of the hill dancing and could now hear a drum beating—a rhythm her heart soon matched.
Intellectually, she had no problem with nudity, but she was from Indiana! No one there would ever consider… And it wouldn’t just be a bunch of little old ladies like Mrs. Weed who told fortunes in gypsy camps. They could be normal people one might pass on the street, or in the halls of academia.
“I could never cheat on my husband. I would never…”
“Shh. Something that you must learn is that nudity is not an invitation to violation,” Mrs. Weed said. “The goddess dwells within you. We of the circle honor the goddess. We would never violate her.” Rebecca breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps she could… “That is not to say that others in the circle will all abstain from sharing with each other. It is Litha, the summer solstice,” the old woman continued. “Some might even ask if you are interested. You, however, are always the one in command of your body. No one will press you, even in the ecstasy of raising a cone of power.”
That should be enough, Rebecca thought. If she was safe, then there would be no harm in being seen naked when everyone else was naked. She simply wouldn’t look at anyone else. Her heart beat more rapidly as excitement quickly overcame reticence. What she had wanted throughout her studies was primary research in her field. If she could not observe, she could—would participate. The decision came through a conscious effort to shut off her nagging conscience.
“All right,” she said, laying down her purse and pulling off her earrings. “What do I do? Quickly, before I have a chance to change my mind.”
“First we bathe in the river. Yes, sure I will stay with you. I will share secrets with you as we cleanse ourselves.”
As Rebecca swam near the shore, Mrs. Weed described the ritual and what would occur. Many of the coveners who were gathered had been on the bus with her all day and had come to welcome her to the circle. There would be representatives of the four lesser circles present for the celestial holiday.
“Precautions were taken centuries ago to conceal the true identities of witches so no one could accuse another of a capital offense. Your name will never be used though many of us socialize outside our gathering. In the circle, I am called The Water Maiden,” the old woman said. “This is the name I was given when asked to carry the third of the four Faces of Carles, the cup. You have met another of the sergeants. Doc is called The Flame Keeper and bears the staff of the circle, the second face. It is rare to have all four faces gathered at once—perhaps once in a generation. Tonight, you will meet the keepers of the other two faces. Before we approach the circle, you need a name. I give you back your maiden name as a wild one who has come to the circle. You will be called The Hart.”
She handed Rebecca a small towel. When Rebecca was dry, she obediently held out her hands and Mrs. Weed bound them with a light cord. Rebecca was reasonably certain that she could snap the bonds with little effort and breathed more easily. As she looked down, though, she saw that her nipples were hard and erect in the night air.
Rebecca let the name wash over her and discovered that as Mrs. Weed led her up the hill toward the standing stones, she was humming to herself.
They were very close to the great northern gate of the stone circle. Rebecca could see the fire in the center, but the circle appeared to be empty now that she was close enough to see.
“There is only one password that you must now have, Hart,” Mrs. Weed said from behind her. “I give you perfect love and perfect trust. Enter with these.”
A man’s voice suddenly spoke from behind the stone on Rebecca’s left. She panicked, ready to run. She knew that voice. He had found her.
“Who comes before the gates,” the man demanded as he stepped from behind the stone and deftly placed the point of a long knife between her breasts. He was naked, his pale skin glowing in the darkness. On his head was an eyeless black hood. It can’t be him. It’s just another English voice, Rebecca admonished herself.
“It is I, The Hart, a child of earth and starry heaven,” Rebecca said. Her voice quaked. The noise of her heart in her ears almost drowned his next words.
“Who speaks for you?”
“I, The Water Maiden of Carles, vouch for her,” said Rebecca’s companion. The challenge, however, was not yet over and the sword’s point nearly forced Rebecca back a step.
“You are about to enter a vortex of power, a place beyond imagining, where birth and death, dark and light, joy and pain, meet and make one. You are about to step between the worlds, beyond time, outside the realm of your human life. You who stand on the threshold of the dread Mighty Ones, have you the courage to make the attempt? For know that it is better to fall on my blade and perish than to enter here with fear in thine heart!”
In spite of the story she had heard, the ritual phrasing of the challenge, and the careful coaching of Mrs. Weed, Rebecca felt the gatekeeper was in deadly earnest. Words struck her memory: The best guides in the world cannot always get you safely through the gates of hell. She summoned up her courage and the passwords that Mrs. Weed had given her.
“I enter the circle with perfect love and perfect trust.”
For a moment, the blade bit more deeply into her flesh and she wondered fleetingly if she would be found worthy to enter the circle. Was there more that was expected of her? The polished blade glinted in the firelight. A quick warding gesture came between Rebecca and the Guardian.
“Blade, your duty is finished,” Mrs. Weed said.
The pressure against her chest immediately released and the gatekeeper placed the point in the ground. He rose again before her and whipped the hood from his head. His face was smooth and young, shaved so closely you would almost think he had no facial hair beneath the closely cut blond hair on his head. Rebecca gasped. The Blade. He had said he was part of the family. Was this what he meant?
His eyes looked so much like Wesley’s that Rebecca caught her breath. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips, never glancing at her naked body.
“Thus are all first brought into the circle, Hart,” he said with a gentleness that belied the violence he had shown in Indiana. He seemed not to note her nakedness, but she had been unable to suppress a glance at his smooth physique. So like Wesley. “The High Priestess awaits at the altar.” He stepped aside to allow Mrs. Weed to lead Rebecca to the altar on the east side of the circle.
A dozen people stepped from behind the stones all around the circle and the High Priestess arose from behind the altar stone itself. She was a woman, ten or fifteen years older than Rebecca, she guessed, and beside her stood a small blonde child, not more than nine or ten. Both were naked save a golden circlet around the priestess’s head. The priestess took the string from Mrs. Weed and led Rebecca around the circle that had drawn close. All were naked. Most were women. At each of the points of the compass, they paused for an invocation. When they passed The Blade—Rebecca knew this was Ryan McGuire—the little girl rushed to him and he picked her up in his arms. Rebecca felt conspicuously on parade before the coveners and was thankful for the relative dark that at least hid her heightened blush, even if not her naked body.
When they returned to the altar, Rebecca stood facing the fire as the High Priestess knelt in front of her. To Rebecca’s surprise, the priestess kissed Rebecca’s feet and untied the cord that bound them.
“Blessed are your feet that bring you along the path of the goddess,” the priestess said. She pulled Rebecca’s hands to her and kissed the palms as she untied them. “Blessed are your hands that offer comfort and kindness in the name of the goddess.” Rebecca gasped as the priestess leaned forward and kissed her mound, directly on the pubic hair. “Blessed is your sex, the cauldron of rebirth and gateway of the goddess into this world.” The priestess stood and kissed Rebecca’s left breast. “Blessed are your breasts that can nourish new life with the love of your heart.” Finally, the priestess kissed Rebecca softly on the lips. Rebecca felt tears escape from her eyes as she welcomed the kiss. “Blessed are your lips that speak the sacred names and pass on the knowledge of the goddess.”
Mrs. Weed assisted the priestess in using the string to measure Rebecca’s height. With the remainder, they measured her head and knotted the length. Finally, they measured her bust and cut the string. The priestess rolled the string into a ball and pressed it into Rebecca’s palm. Ryan McGuire stepped up beside the priestess, still carrying the little girl. He handed the priestess a finely engraved knife with an ebony handle. The priestess pricked Rebecca’s finger with the tip of the blade and pressed the blood against the string before handing the knife back to McGuire. The little girl clapped.
“Your measure has been taken,” said the priestess, “head, height, and heart. We hold this against a day when your witness is needed. Never shall you reveal the name or identity of any person in this circle. So you must swear.”
“I so swear,” Rebecca said.
She knelt before the assembled coveners and placed one hand beneath her heel and one on top of her head. After the priestess, she repeated, “All between my two hands belongs to the goddess.”
For the first time since she had entered the circle the coveners broke their silence, all shouting at once, “So mote it be!”
“So mote it be,” Rebecca whispered. She had crossed a threshold. She belonged to the goddess.
Sunday, 26 June 1955, City of the Gods
After a week of daily excursions to the strange city or temple, the group decided on a day of rest. They packed empty food containers and rubbish in a pack and trekked back to the drop-off point to replenish their supplies. Wesley placed a letter to Rebecca in the trunk. He understood that the monk, Brother El, would be by sometime this week to refill the trunk and take any messages to be posted. It was a strange arrangement, but no one else, even Brother El, would be brought to the base camp by the old olive tree.
The group prepared their evening meal and Pol did some sleight of hand for their entertainment. He was working on new tricks and was as absorbed in his magic as the rest of the team was in the City of the Gods.
“Pol,” said Doc, “neither Wesley nor Margaret have actually heard the legend of Serepte. I’m afraid my telling of it leaves much to be desired. You did such a good job of telling it the last time I was here. Would you mind telling it again?”
“I will be happy to tell of Serepte,” said Paul, “but it will not be the same story. What I told before was what I had heard. What I must tell now is what I have seen.”
The first thing Doc noticed was that Pol’s storytelling had matured since the last trip. He was surprised that a twelve-year-old’s frame of reference could allow for more than a recitation of the romantic tale. It was obvious, though that the boy’s love for the story and the characters had only increased.
“The story of Serepte has been passed down through my family for many generations. My father taught it to me as his father taught him. Those who choose not to follow the ancient paths forget. My family alone keeps the mystery of the mountain city alive. I may have been one like my father who chose to depart from the ancient ways, had not the great powers intervened to awaken me with prophecy. It happened like this.” With that, Pol’s demeanor changed and he spun a tale the captured the hearts of his listeners.
On my twelfth birthday, I was led to the holy place. One can only come to the holy city by way of revelation. To those who seek without the blessings of the gods, no fulfillment comes. Those who are ready to believe, the gods bring into their presence, even if they seek not. Such a one was I—believing, though I did not understand. I was brought to the holy of holies, into the presence of the principalities of the worlds.
The King brought me into his presence. On his left were cupbearers. On his right a feast was spread. The winds sang in his halls and he floated upon a throne of sunlight. The stars were his crown and all the worlds sat at his feet. The King summoned me to his feet and lightning flashed around him. I was afraid.
“Mortal,” spoke the awesome one, “your little belief is the herald of great things. Understanding will burst in upon you like the dawn of a new day when day has truly dawned. Your kindred have waited long. Your service to this shrine nears its end. Nor will the gods neglect your reward, accumulated for generations in these hallowed halls. Answer mortal: Who is this you see before you?”
And I looked and behold I saw a serpent climbing the rod of one who stood in the stars. And I answered and said, “It is Asklepios, the healer.” Asklepios was the son of Apollo by the deceitful Koronis. Apollo plucked him from his mother’s womb on her funeral pyre. Thus he came to fulfill the prophecy of Chiron the Centaur that he would never be born but would see death twice. Then, as immortal, he took as wife Iasis Epione, the goddess called Health.
“You are instructed well, mortal,” spoke the awesome one. “See how your guardians, Cynthia and Cynthius, smile upon you. You are taken as son to Asklepios and your grandfather grants you his name. Rise Apollion and observe both history and prophecy.”
And I arose and stood between the Cynthian twins, Apollo and Artemis. And he who was now my grandfather showed me history through his eyes. I knew the pain of Koronis’s deception. My fury cursed the white raven black. And as Artemis stretched her bow, my will guided the arrow to the heart of Koronis. Remorse heaped itself upon grief upon anger as I saw the funeral pyre kindled. The flames leaped up to consume the body of my one-time love, her unborn son still locked within her womb. Some pain, a mortal is not made to know. Seeing through Apollo’s eyes, blurred with immortal agony, I begged him—no, commanded him—to save some remnant of his love. And so, with hands ablaze in the funeral pyre, we snatched forth the unborn son from the unyielding womb and, without birth, brought him into mortal life. I carried my son-father to the cave of Chiron to raise him and heard the prophecy of the twice dead, mortal and immortal child.
But things mortal are doomed to die. And thus, to appease an angered Hades, Zeus struck down the healer for daring to reclaim a life from the darker god. Thus did Asklepios have death at the beginning and the end of his life.
Then my guardian Artemis guided my eyes through her own, for Apollo’s were filled with tears. She showed me how Asklepios was restored to eternal life among the gods and became renowned after his death as a healer greater than before. She feasted me at the wedding that joined Health, Iasis Epione, to Asklepios.
Then the King spoke again and the voice like thunder whispered. “You have seen the pain brought by untrue love. You will see what joy may be yours through the love ordained by the maker of all. Behold your mother.” And a sound of singing filled the air. I saw nine sisters dancing in the temple, the music filling all who heard with joy. But one among the sisters pined for love lost. This was the lyric muse whose tones were sweeter and purer than all other living creatures. She it was who loved Asklepios and mourned because he was wed to Health. But unlike jealous gods before her, she forsook the way of Hera and turned her painful love to the service of her rival. She I knew as mother.
Euterpe sang a song of devotion deep and sincere. Its chords were strong as fiber, as pure as ivory. They wove in and through each other like silk. As the mesh of music enclosed about her, she was seen to look after Iasis so longingly, so devotedly, that it was as if a mirror reflected the very image of Health behind the veil of music. I beheld this as if I, too, were behind the ivory veil. All others were held without and could not see in. Behind the veil was a shrine to Health, the veiled goddess. Euterpe cut her hair and laid it upon an altar. In its place grew locks so like Iasis that were it not for the finely woven veil that parted them, one might have thought that Health had passed in and Euterpe disappeared.
But here I found the greater mystery. So complete was this reflection that when Iasis grew with child, Euterpe’s body changed as well. Hygiea and Serepte were born within an hour of each other, twin sisters of different wombs. In Euterpe’s arms lay a child born of desire, conceived by empathy.
Great Zeus commanded Euterpe’s presence and through that veil which she had woven, she passed without a mark. But Serepte, who would join her, found the wall as hard as stone. I was torn, for though mere mortal, I knew that I could follow Euterpe if I so desired. But to look upon that child, born of impossible desire, would bring a man to leave mother, hearth, and home. I was her playfellow and loved her. I stayed to bring her happiness and company as we grew up together.
Our home behind the veil was always as large as we wished, and yet for warmth at night we could draw it in around us like a blanket. Love grew there as flowers in a garden. As we climbed one day to the peak of a mountain to look down at the clouds, my mortality caught up with me and I fell. I knew my time would be short in this land of bliss where my love and I played together. My broken bones cried out from within me as I lay at the foot of the peak. My love, my beautiful Serepte, came and cradled me in her arms. Her hair, taken from the altar where her mother had lain it, adorned her with beauty beyond compare. Her silken gown fell about her in soft folds. Her arms lifted me and in love carried me to her birthplace where first we met. Her tears washed my brow and she bound my wounds with kisses from her lips as she sang to me songs of love. I looked and saw that it was not I alone who had been injured, for her brow bled and bruises were on her delicate arms. The legs with which she carried me were crippled just as mine. And I beheld that my legs were strong and my brow no longer bled.
I lifted my love, my beautiful love, upon that couch where she had laid me and listened as she sang words and music that filled my soul and washed away my fears. We stood in another world and there the pain dissolved and took on new forms in the music that she sang. And her hymn reached the heavens as we wafted back to that place, our marriage bed.
But here my vision ceased. I stood no longer behind the ivory veil, nor did Zeus call me back into his presence. I knew that all had fled to places in the heavens. But in the city remained one with whom I was already bound. Her voice whispered yet across the wind to me and pledged me to her love. I know that even though I may not deliver her, mine will be the reward.
The story aroused strong feelings in Wesley as he listened. He lay back enjoying senses that awoke in thinking about Rebecca. When the story ended, it was only he who spoke.
“I would like to see your Serepte, Pol. I would like to meet her very much.”
Comments
Please feel free to send comments to the author at devon@devonlayne.com.
