Behind the Ivory Veil
22 Goddess Accepted
Thursday, 18 August 1955, City of the Gods
REBECCA!
The voice echoed around her from every direction, but the darkness would not release her as she followed. This was insane. The camp should be right here. It wasn’t here. She was lost. She should sit down right where she was and wait for rescue. Every child knew that. But someone kept calling her name just over there. If she could only call out in answer, help would come. But her throat was too dry, her lungs ached, and her heart pounded. She could not answer. So she kept climbing.
The light ahead grew stronger as she came out of the fog at last onto a long flat plateau. The light—starlight. She had never seen so many stars. They seemed so close that she could reach out and touch them. They lit the darkness and scattered it to the winds. On this wide open plain, the stars shone and danced above her, flooding her vision with gentle, pure light. She thanked God that she was safe; the Goddess that she was alive.
A euphoric pleasure in life began to fill her. Suddenly, the fog, the mountain, the danger was very far away. A voice inside told her she had reached a place of safety where she was welcome. She began gently to hum, then to sing, eyes intent on the sky. She dropped her clothes as so much extra baggage and took up her staff and cup in her hands. Her athame, she thrust through the elastic band of her underwear. She rapped time with her staff on the ground, body swaying, head tilting, eyes following the dance of the stars. Her feet left the ground, one after the other, as her body sensed the rhythm of the crystalline ballroom above her. Rebecca had not danced since she was a child, clapping hands to music made up in her head. A feeling of elation welled up inside her and she began to spin—to circle—to spin—to jump—to spin round and round on the wide open plateau, never taking her eyes off the stars dancing above her. She became dizzy and her stomach rose to her throat, but she danced through the dizziness and her heart regained the tempo of the stars.
She sang and pranced and praised and danced. She was filled with a rising sense of power as she had been in her rituals, but it was fueled by pure joy. She created new words and new melodies. She was alive. Her younger self had come out to play. She had survived. She was free. She sang and danced—danced for the goddess of the new moon that watched over her. She sang until she could no longer hold inside her the rushing bursts of pleasure the power sent through her. And she whirled and spun and sang and laughed. Her voice rose and rang out, echoing from unseen surfaces in multiple tones and harmonies. There was an ecstasy in the air that she could not comprehend, but it made her want all the more to dance and sing and laugh.
The plain was flat as far as the eye could see with the single exception of a dome on the horizon. She danced and sang and spun and moved ever closer toward it. This was a sign of habitation. People made domes. She was at home among domes. All the important buildings she knew had domes. Capitol buildings, libraries, museums. All ancient buildings.
But this dome had no building beneath it.
Before her, it rose abruptly from the plain, dark and solid—a voluptuous monument to all that was feminine. It shined darkly beneath the night sky.
She touched it with her foot and found herself upon it. The ground jutted out from its base vertically beside her. She touched the ground and found the dome beside her once again. She laughed. All her childhood laughter, all the booming belly laughs, all the romantic giggles burst out of her in sheets of laughter, cascading through the darkness into the pool of night around her. She danced around the base of the dome, leaping up to its side and then back to the earth—laughing—dancing farther and farther up the sides of the smooth round surface, always flat beneath her feet.
An amazing feat of architectural engineering, she thought to herself with mock sophistication. Her own joke generated new laughter. This was no feat of mere architects. It was magic. No human had engineered this incredible structure with its own gravity field. All around her the world rose like a wall except at the horizon of the dome where all disappeared into the night sky.
She rushed the horizon with a leap and a pirouette and tumbled headlong over the prone body of a man lying across the highest point of the dome. She caught only a glimpse of him as she rolled away, but it was enough to call her instantly back to reality. Ryan McGuire! He had beaten her!
She leapt to her feet and rushed back to the summit, fists clenched in her fury. How dare he violate this treasured sanctuary? How dare he presume to lie across their surface. She would not allow it. The dome was herself, her own full bosom thrust into the air. She would not permit this violation of all that was holy. It must stop.
In an instant, her Athamé was in her hand calling out a new pain from her burned hand. She grasped it two-fisted above her head for the sacrificial rite and rushed the man again. But it was the pain blazing in her hand and up her arm that caused her to stumble before she reached her target. The flaming passion was fanned again as she felt the dagger come to rest against her own breast where she had known the bite of his. Even unconscious, he was defended against her blade by the bond she had forged. In rage, she let the sacred tool fall and struggled on toward the man.
All that was woman in her revolted against this conquering beast. She was Bacchante at the Feast of Dionysus. In a frenzy of lust and hatred and love and anger—emotions so tied together she could not separate them—she struck out with her feet, feeling bones crush with the impact. She would purify this place. She would drain his lifeblood on the altar and dance a death dance on his body. She leapt and kicked and sang, deep in her throat a roar of fury. She fell on him and beat him with her fists. He would not move. He lay still. She raked him with her nails and screamed her hatred. He was silent. She bit him and pounded his head. She was all that was holy. He was all that was damned. She would purge herself of the profane. She would drive the curse of man from the world and live at peace.
Exhausted, she fell next to the body that still lay without a sound. The power drained from her in her frenzy. Remorse overwhelmed her. Laughter rose up in her throat but choked there. She was cold. She drew close to the body for warmth, but no warmth embraced her. She was lonely, but there was no companion. She wept, but there were no tears. She sang, but the music had fled.
Slowly, she called her senses home. The dizziness grabbed at her again and she heaved dry, wracking heaves. For an eternity, she lived in that world between waking and the ghastly nightmares of sleep. She could not tell what was real and what was still a bad dream clinging to her mind.
At last the body came into focus. He was familiar, but he was not Ryan McGuire. There was no blonde hair. No bloody Athamé held in his hand. She turned him to look at the face and tears flooded her eyes. Wesley! J. Wesley Allen. Her beloved. Her husband. What had she done?
She raised him and cradled him in her arms, whispering his name over and over, unable to believe that she had injured him. Wesley would not awaken. She raised her head to the heavens in accusation and wept. The sound of her voice died in the empty distance without an echo.
Wesley’s head fell back on her arm as she gathered him close. She looked into his glazed eyes and he looked back without comprehension. She moved her hand to brush his hair from his face and was arrested by the sparkle of a jewel embedded in his forehead between his eyes. She traced it with her finger and it fell into her hand, leaving a pentagram imprinted on Wesley’s forehead.
Her eyes were torn between the imprint on Wesley’s forehead and the jewel in her palm. At last, fascination had its way and she stared at the star. It was dark, but unlike the darkness of emptiness, this was a full darkness. Within the darkness of the star were all the colors and all the lights that she could imagine. They were reduced to essential elements and compacted into one darkly shining stone which she held in her hand. She could not believe that the stone could be so lightweight with the immense mass that it contained.
As she focused on the stone held in the palm of her burned hand, the red and blistered flesh began to slowly dry and fall away. Her palm turned pink with new skin. It, in turn, grew to the healthy rich tones of her flesh. It left no scar or imprint of any kind. Then her eyes jerked away from the stone with such a sudden separation that her head snapped back physically. She had not merely stopped looking at it, she had been thrust away.
She found tears in her eyes flowing as freely as the dancing had flowed through her feet, as powerfully as the rage had raced through her mind. The tears fell on the man held in her arms, mixed with the blood on his face, and fell to the surface below. Beneath the two, in the light of the stars, she could see her own reflection in the glassy surface of the dome and the reflection of the new moon and all the stars held steadfast in the sky. She looked from the bleeding surface of the dome to the sky it reflected, then back to the dome.
The moon gazed back at her from the reflected surface. Something was amiss in the way it looked. She checked the reality sky again and was drawn back to the reflection. A small void commanded her attention. She held the tiny star-shaped stone out over the void and it shrank to the shape and size of the jewel. When she withdrew the stone, the void opened like shutters on a camera lens.
Through her tears, she could see her own reflection in the void, centered in the star. It wept as well, the tears dropping up to meet her own. But the reflection, she realized, was not of herself—at least, not through her own eyes. She saw the image move, independent of herself. Then it moved toward her. Rebecca started back and held Wesley protectively. The image reached toward him. She held him tighter.
A gentle wind came to her from the void, carrying with it a faraway voice and the musical note of a flute. The wind picked up a lock of Rebecca’s hair, scattering it on her forehead. The one she saw in the void—who was so much like her, but so apart from her—she was the source of the enchantment that had led Rebecca through the night. Rebecca had found her. The image had not hurt Wesley; Rebecca had.
The Goddess. Serepte of the legends—the myths—was real. She could help Wesley. She must help.
“Serepte!” The image seemed so distant, so impenetrable. “Serepte, what must I do?”
She started at her own words, wondering what had inspired them. The image still reached out toward Rebecca through the void. It begged to be accepted. It had no other channel to life. But first they must heal the prophesied one.
Rebecca felt the voice move deep inside her, begging her. Because she loved. Because the goddess yearned for her love. Because through Rebecca, she could love. But there was still more. Rebecca loved her—would love her like no other could. Would love her like the mother she lost an eternity ago when the gods abandoned Olympus. Rebecca had no frame of reference for a love like this. It was overwhelming, filling every possible corner of her being. It was a love that demanded to be consulted before any decision—a love that influenced all of life. And love continued to be its only goal.
Almost. They almost touched. Rebecca almost forgot that it was a reflection—a mere image in a void. She almost forgot Wesley. She shrank back. Tears filled her eyes anew.
“I’m afraid.” She almost choked on the words.
The presence of the image moved again. It wavered—for a moment, less of Rebecca than it had been. Then it merged back toward her with such an outpouring of warmth and passion and love that Rebecca was overcome by the intense presence that surrounded her. Emotions without names flowed over them and around them and through them. Rebecca felt that she could gather Wesley and the image up into her arms like little babies and float with them through the air in her all-encompassing, mothering care.
Rebecca reached and found her hand passing through the star-shaped void in the surface of the dome, into the cool depths of its inner chambers. She remembered bathing in the cool stream. The hand of the image rose to meet hers. She could feel soft loving fingers touch and caress her hand. Her heart beat faster at the touch. She dipped deeper, drawing the other to herself. The closer their faces came, the more alike they looked and the more separate they were. Another—created in the image—that looked much like her, but was not her.
The other reached out to Rebecca. The arms were warm, human, loving. They hugged each other in a fluid embrace, suspended in space and time. Rebecca closed her eyes and squeezed the other, the body solid and firm in her arms. She could feel the beating of a second heart against her breast. She felt the breath of the other warm against her cheek. Her skin yielded to the presence of the other.
Rebecca inhaled but could not get enough air. Her body tensed. She pulled with her lungs for more air. The caressing presence was real. She clasped the other tighter, pulling her close to Wesley. Rebecca’s head was filled with the sounds of their breathing. Their hearts beat wildly in her ears.
Too much air! She had taken too much air into her lungs and they would soon burst. She had to force herself to breathe. Her body was too tense. She might crush Wesley in this three-way embrace. Still, her arms tightened around the other—squeezed so tightly that they merged. In a burst, the other melted into Rebecca’s skin, heart, and brain. The air came rushing out of her lungs and the sound of her own voice split the night air. Her tears were hot on her cheeks as she sobbed. Her entire body was shaking.
Rebecca could still feel the other presence, but they were now one. She rocked Wesley in her arms, bathing him with her tears and singing lullabies to him. She was purged. She was fresh. She was clean.
She was Goddess.
And with that awareness, Rebecca touched her husband and let her awareness sink into him. Every wound that Wesley had, she could feel. And she could feel his trust in her. She could heal him.
She cradled him against her breast and spoke his name softly. The tears from her tightly closed eyes fell across the star-shaped indentation on his head. She had given the wounds that now she received. Her teeth had torn his flesh—her own flesh. She could feel the blood running from her own body where her raking nails had scored his back. She accepted the pain into her body and it flowed out in a wave of music through her tears.
In her heightened state of awareness, Rebecca was suddenly, irrevocably in love. IN love—it danced around her, covered her, lifted her up in a bundle and caught her deftly in strong caring arms. Love rushed over her in torrents of laughter, flicking careless tongues of consuming passion at her fingertips. Love washed her up on a dry sand beach and lapped playfully at her toes. It was all joy and all goodness and beauty, dosed liberally with wicked little touches and hidden glances at her lover. It was all-encompassing with just the slightest hint of fear that it might all be a dream—just imagination. Magic.
It was not fantasy. It was hard fleshly reality that she grasped in her hand. Panic. Lost control. Something was using her mind to satisfy its own carnal lust. Terror as the faces of an unknown power forced their way past her unyielding consciousness. A wall, erected brick by brick around her and in its midst a star-shaped chasm into which she plunged through never ending void.
Rebecca could not comprehend the kaleidoscope of images that assaulted her. It was like walking through the precarious paths of someone else’s overwrought mind and having her own mind invaded by an alien force at the same time. So deeply entwined had she become with Wesley’s feelings while healing him that she could not separate her own from the torrent of emotions that he felt while rising from his delirium.
In her hand, she could still feel the star stone she had removed from Wesley’s forehead. This was her key. Frozen in her position, she reached out with her mind to call the guardians of the watchtowers and create a glowing warded circle around her. In the center of her ring of light was the yawning chasm sucking at her spirit—calling to exchange her soul for that of the goddess.
“No! I shall not relinquish myself. I shall not become the goddess. I am a woman. I love a man—this man. I will not give up my love, my humanity, nor my womanhood. I choose my love.” Rebecca felt power flow from her as the star-shaped void was capped and the gaping pit no longer held sway over her.
She was immediately back in her own mind with only her own confusion to deal with. She looked at Wesley’s face and saw his open and comprehending eyes. The star-shaped impression was only faintly traced upon his brow.
Rebecca cradled him in her arms and stroked his hair. She kissed his forehead and his lips. She felt a gentle tingling as his hand slipped across her shoulders and down her back, releasing her bra as it went. She felt his strength returning as she pulled his tattered shirt from his shoulders.
“You came for me,” he whispered. “My beloved wife, I am yours.”
“I love you,” she cried as his fingers found her secret place and his lips closed around her turgid nipple. The violence and intensity of the night dissolved into whispered words of love. Her hands floated the length of his body, helping him out of his torn clothes. They were naked beneath the stars and the new moon. Her fingers sought and soothed each spot where her earlier passion had gouged his back. Her lips kissed away the last remnants of the pain inflicted by her teeth. She held him to her breasts and welcomed the life of his lips as he suckled. His strong gentle hands moved along her sides and thighs as the last of her underwear was shed.
She thrilled to his touch. His hands sought her breasts, her hair, her sex, and plunged deeper into her opening. She gasped as she opened her eyes to see his open before her. She let him look deeply into her soul, inviting him to be part of her. She swept him into her heart as she welcomed him into her core, his hardness filling her. She saw herself reflected in his eyes.
They had had only a week of marital bliss before they had to separate, she to Scotland and he to Greece. They had made love as often as their bodies could respond and Rebecca admitted that she enjoyed it. She would welcome him to her body as often as he craved it. But she had been sure there was more. While she enjoyed her husband, she had not felt the instant lubrication that she had when falling under the spell of The Blade.
But on this night, it was a new Wesley. He loved her body as much as he loved her soul. And he seemed to have found in his night on the mountain, not only a new passion but a new understanding of his mate’s needs and desires. He explored her with both his hands and his mouth. He sought places of pleasure that even she did not know existed. With his first touch of her wet center, her nerves responded shaking her entire body. When he found the center of her pleasure, she called out her joy to the stars above. When, at last, he fastened his lips to hers, his tongue toying with her own and his penis sliding past the gates of her womanhood, she wept with the joy that overwhelmed her. The orgasm that took her shook her to her core and when she felt his ejaculate in her vagina, her senses overloaded and she passed out.
She awoke, not certain how long she had slept in the arms of her lover. The stars still danced in the sky, but she sensed that dawn was near. She looked at her husband and saw his gaze fixed a few feet away. There, just above the star-shaped void, danced a cyclone of colors. Her heart jumped to her throat as Wesley stood and held out his arms to the presence.
So soon? He would betray her so soon and take, instead, the goddess released from her prison behind the ivory veil?
The presence approached Wesley’s arms and coalesced into a lovely young woman, long red hair flowing down her slender and very naked back. She melted into his arms and kissed him.
Tears ran freely from Rebecca’s eyes as she watched. But things began to change. The kiss was not one of passion. The nudity was not a prelude to sex.
Wesley lifted the young goddess in his arms and as Rebecca watched, the naked girl began to shrink, reversing the aging process. She became a gangly-legged adolescent, an awkward preteen, a child with missing teeth, a toddler, an infant. At last, Wesley held the tiny, softly glowing presence in the palm of his hand. With this he approached his beloved wife.
Kneeling before her, Wesley kissed Rebecca’s stomach, just above the fur of her delta. His hands approached and the tiny flame of life slipped from them and into her womb.
“We will have a beautiful daughter,” he whispered.
They made love again, both weeping tears of joy at the seed that had been planted in Rebecca’s womb. Beneath the stars they drifted once again to sleep.
Rebecca dreamed of falling past the gentle arms of her sleeping lover, leaving him cradling only himself in his dreams. And she passed through a veil where he could not pass. She saw all the world spread before her and stood alone together with the one who was within her, but was not herself.
“It may be hard, but we will make it,” whispered a voice within her. “The price of a rite of passage is to leave a part of you behind.”
The voice on the wind was still. The air was cool and made her shiver. She closed her eyes tightly, but could see nothing behind them. Her voice could not call out. Her eyes could not weep. Her lungs could scarcely breathe. As far as she could listen, she strained her ears and all was still.
“Rebecca?”
She opened her eyes. Wesley held her in his arms. They sat on a large flat dais of stone. His hand was held protectively across her womb. The moon and stars were gone in the grey half-light of dawn. Surrounding them was a forest of pillars. Wesley lovingly spoke her name again. There was a flash of light and the sun broke fully into view.
Three figures walked toward them between the rows of pillars.
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