Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (21 page)

“Nonsense!” Dáuniya announced, starting after her husband. She was pleased at Diwoméde’s answer, even more delighted at his new-found air of authority. “The harder the climb is, the great the blessing at the end. Stay here if you are too tired, Qérayan. Diwoméde and I will go on alone.”

But the youth was not about to be left alone in that place of death. He scurried ahead. “If you are both going, I will too.” He quickly stepped in front of Dáuniya and the
qasiléyu
. “Let me lead the way.”

Above the Shining Rocks, the trio climbed as the day hastened to its end. The last of their water consumed, their bodies nearing collapse from the exertion, the travelers continued until they reached a small valley high above the cloudline. The sun’s fiery heat gradually lessened as it approached the western peaks. Exhausted, the pilgrims rested, gazing out over the harsh grandeur of the landscape.

“The goddess really must live here,” Qérayan panted. “I can see the outline of her shoulder and hip.” He pointed toward the rounded mountain tops where the sky was streaked with brilliant colors, red and orange, as the peaks greeted the approaching night.

“She is sleeping,” Dáuniya agreed in a whisper.

“She is waiting,” said another. It was a strange woman’s voice, harsh, commanding. The three ambassadors whirled around at the unexpected sound. None had seen this woman approach, this black-haired queen in her flounced skirt of many colors, her tight bodice that left her heavy breasts exposed.

Qérayan quickly touched one hand to his chest and his forehead, saluting the priestess of Put’ó in respect. “Hail to you,
wánasha
.”

At his side, Diwoméde was too surprised to make the appropriate salute. He gasped, “Ip’imédeya!” Shuddering violently at the sight of this woman, he found his knees could not hold him and he sat suddenly. His left hand, the stronger one, dropped the water bag and flew to his forehead where it remained, unsteadily. “Ip’igéneya,” he managed to correct himself, but could not think what else to say.

Ip’igéneya turned her piercing eyes toward Dáuniya. But the third pilgrim made not even a perfunctory show of obeisance and met the priestess’s steady gaze with her own. “So,” said the heavy-set seeress, raising a black eyebrow, “you have returned to me a fourth time in as many years, Qérayan. Asking for a thing four times is certain to offend the gods. Can you be so foolish as to be unaware of that?”

The young man paled.
“Ai
, yes, I mean, no, my lady, I mean, yes, I know. I, that is, I have not come about my mother this time. I, we, that is…”

“And you,” Ip’igéneya interrupted, turning to the
qasiléyu
just as imperiously. “Diwoméde, what brings you here, of all people?”

Dáuniya opened her mouth to answer, but her husband was quicker. “The three of us have come as emissaries. We represent a band of people of many nations, all driven from our homes, all looking for a new place to settle. We came to consult the oracle.” His voice betrayed him at the end, catching in his throat. He fell silent and dropped his eyes.

“We thought to sail west,” Dáuniya added, clenching her fists to steel herself against the numinous power in those black eyes, the force that had silenced Diwoméde. “We thought to settle in the Bull Country, across the western sea.”

Ip’igéneya looked the other woman up and down, her eyes full of suspicion. “The
Táuro
Country is far away. Few Ak’áyans have gone there. Fewer still have returned.”

“That may be true,” Dáuniya countered, gaining courage. “But it is a place of strong men and healthy women. More than half of the children born there live to bear children themselves. I know. I was born there myself.”

The seeress now raised both of her dark eyebrows. “I see. You must be the famous Dáuniya, then, Diwoméde’s spear-won bride. I have heard of you.” Turning, she cut off the man’s response, announcing, “I will consult the goddess for you. Come with me.”

The three travelers hesitated, looking at one another in some surprise. But they quickly recovered and followed the dark-eyed priestess. With the twilight rapidly deepening around them, they entered a cluster of trees, the sacred grove of the sanctuary. They threaded their way awkwardly among the aromatic firs on a narrow, winding path, toward the very peak of the mountain. The pilgrims’ limbs were heavy with fatigue and their guide was soon far ahead of them.

In a furtive whisper, Qérayan marveled aloud at Ip’igéneya‘s knowledge of them. “The fact that she knew us is proof of her divine authority, you know. Surely, no ordinary woman could remember the faces and names of everyone who spoke to her. I am convinced of that. This priestess is the highest authority in all of Ak’áiwiya, I tell you. No one could possibly question her legitimacy now.”

Dáuniya hissed at him urgently, “You are wrong, Qérayan! Do not be so trusting. She may be nothing but a clever charlatan. We must be careful. Do not reveal any more information to her than what is absolutely necessary. Rely on the goddess to fill in all the details. That is how we will know if she is divinely inspired or not.”

“That is probably wise,” Diwoméde agreed, somewhat uncertainly, still feeling a little unnerved by the sight of the woman. “Even if she is a true seeres and not a fake, she might not approve of some of our companions. Many Ak’áyans have reason to hate Ainyáh and Peirít’owo, not to mention Odushéyu, after all. Already, Ip’igéneya does not seem overly friendly.”

“All right,” Qérayan agreed, a bit reluctantly. “Have it your way, Diwoméde. Since Dáuniya and I seem to have displeased her, you should act as the leader of our expedition”

Dáuniya nodded, at the same time placing a finger over her mouth to silence the men, for the priestess had halted just outside an opening in the cliffside, waiting for them to catch up.

As the pilgrims came near, Ip’igéneya turned and promptly disappeared into darkness. Qérayan gasped, not comprehending what had just happened, and took a step backward. He was quite shaken by the suddenness of it, in the otherworldly atmosphere of that place. Dáuniya took Diwoméde’s hand, too, gripping him tightly in her anxiety. The former
qasiléyu
glanced nervously at his companions. Still, there was nothing to do but to enter the cave. Taking a deep breath, he led the way.

Inside, the cavern was astonishingly large, the walls curving upward far above their heads. Sparsely lit by burning torches, set in brackets on the walls, and by a small hearth fire, the vast chamber stretched away into the darkness far deeper than the gathering gloom outside had suggested. It was quite cool within and the air was damp, a great contrast to the hot, dry weather outside. Now and again, a drop of water could be heard, the slight sound amplified in the quiet. All around were strange rock formations, great towers rising from the floor of the cave, and equally large mirror images of them hanging down from far above. In the flickering light, the shadowed stalagmites and stalactites almost seemed to move, to dance, just as the trees on the slopes below had done. These stone images, crafted by no human hand, were certainly alive, housing strange, unworldly forces, with names the pilgrims had never dreamed.

“Welcome to the cave of the Great Goddess and her Divine Child,” Ip’igéneya, the Strong Born, announced. Her powerful voice echoed through the immense chamber. The travelers huddled together, shivering. “Make your offerings to the guardians of this place,” the seeress commanded, “and I will purify myself before listening for the voice of Diwonúso.”

“What does she mean?” Dáuniya whispered, wide-eyed with fear. “What offering must we give? We have nothing with us, not even a bit of fish or barley meal.”

Nervously Qérayan shook his head. “No cakes,” he gulped, barely breathing the words. “No milk. No honey.
Owái
, we might as well go back to the ships right now!”

“Feed the fire,” Diwoméde told them suddenly, as the thought came to him. “That is what she must mean. Fire is the oldest and most sacred gift of the goddess.” More sure of himself than at first, he stepped forward into the brighter light that surrounded the circular hearth. Kneeling beside the rough stones at the perimeter, he took a few small branches stacked on a large, flat basket. “To all the gods, may the sight of this fire and the scent of its smoke please you,” he muttered, laying conifer branches atop the burning logs. Catching the sap, the flames crackled, sending their enigmatic message high into the air, shooting sparks in every direction.

On the other side of the round hearth, Ip’igéneya could be seen through the fire, reaching toward the rising smoke, beckoning it to herself. She seated herself on a tripod, a three-legged stand of smoke-blackened bronze. Closing her eyes, she began to chant the names and titles of the divine protectors of the cave, its attendant tree spirits, and the deity of the wild waters in the gorge below. Some of her words the travelers could hear, some they could not. A strange scent wafted toward them through the cave, seemingly rising from deep rifts in the floor of the dark chamber. “Mother of gods, mother of horses…mother of humankind, I call on you. Diwiyána, Diyúya, Dánwa, Diyóna, come to me! Bringer of grain, law-giver, queen of the waters both above and below, O great milk cow, source of all that lives and dies, I beseech thee, come to me! T’úwiya, At’ána, Dáwan, Déyu, I summon thee! Dobrogéya, bearer of kingship, Adánya, fly to me, O Lady of the Mountain, Mother of the Heavens, Mother of the Divine Twins, hear me! Send thy son to me, and come! Tánai, Purut’énei, Mother of Préswa, Mother of Diwonúso, Mother of All, hear me! Déna, Denú, Daraqánai….
éya
!”

Ip’igéneya’s voice rose as she recited the words, the formulas, the names, and the titles. Her arms lifted higher, too, with each phrase. Out of the gloom at the far end of the cavern there came the high and airy piping of flutes. From the other side sounded the jangling of metal, the high-pitched ring of small bits of bronze clashing against one another. The three pilgrims trembled and moved closer to one another. Their eyes darted about the shadowed cave, seeking the
maináds
who surely played those pipes and that sistrum. The horns of a goat now and then caught the light from the hearth, half-hidden by the pillars of smoke rising both from the hearth and even from the fractured floor of the cavern. The neighing of horses drifted in from some distant corner.

Ip’igéneya’s voice now filled the cave with a crescendo of sound and music, half singing, half chanting. “Sister of the sea, daughter of the night, I invoke you, O Great Goddess. Divine
Wánasha
of the earth and waters, send your Twin Children to me. Your son, Diwonúso, the Divine Kid, the Holy Calf, does battle with me!
Ai
, he subdues me, he inspires me, he possesses my soul! Your daughter, Artémito, foremost among
maináds
, the great bear sow, queen of the wild things, drives me to madness, she forces me to dance!” The priestess shuddered in all her limbs. Instead of words now, she began trilling the war-cry that attracts the attention of gods and men,
“Alalá!”
Suddenly she leaped from the tripod, almost into the blazing fire. At the same time, she gave an ear-piercing shriek. The ululating call bounced from stone tower to wall, to ceiling to floor, and back around again, as if a hundred wild spirits were screaming in the dark. The trampling of many feet sounded from every direction. Ip’igéneya’s cry was taken up by countless other voices, both male and female. Women clad only in greenery appeared briefly from the blackness. Accompanying them were strange beings which appeared to be half-men, half-beast, creatures which bleated like goats one moment, howled like wolves the next, clad in fur…or was it sheepskin? They dashed about with such rapidity, just on the edge of visibility, that the pilgrims could not be certain just what they saw, or how many.

Tearing at her head, Ip’igéneya loosened the clasps and ribbons that had bound her long, flowing locks in neat array. Screaming a full-bodied, inarticulate cry, like a wounded beast, she began to run and leap about the room, dashing through the flames in the central hearth, time and again. Repeatedly, she disappeared into the black depths only to reappear a moment later from another side, totally unexpectedly. As she ran through the fireplace, she kicked out sparks in all directions. She caught up leafy boughs and threw them about, some burning. From her lips came the bellowing of the bull, king of domestic beasts. Her throat gave the shrill cry of the hawk, the unearthly hooting of the ill-omened owl, and the long, haunting call of the wolf, sovereign of the wild.

“Apúluno!” Ip’igéneya cried, throwing back her head. Her eyes were wide, focused on nothing of this world, while the dimly glimpsed beings continued rushing about in the remote recesses of the cavern. “The grim Assúwan god of the gate is stalking all of the lands that rim the Inner Sea,” the seeress announced, waving her hands. “Apúluno, author of beginnings and endings, is hunting the nations of Ak’áiwiya, like so many deer. The lands of Assúwa are no longer his only prey. The divine archer shoots his unseen arrows into the bodies of Diwiyána’s children. Pestilence,
ai
! Famine,
owái
! He sends them to us, and the sudden death that crushes the breath in the chest. These are his despicable gifts to all humankind.
Owái
,
P’ilístas
, what atrocity have you committed? You kingdoms of feathered warriors, how dare you make offerings to this foreign god.
Ai
, my bull-horned soldiers of the south, when did you begin sacrificing to this foul
dáimon
?
Zeyugelátes
, you must not abandon Diwiyána’s laws in desperation. Remember your native deities, my brothers and sisters, I beg of you. Turn back from the gates of Apúluno’s foreign altar, my kinsmen. Resist this blood-sucking
lámiya
, this evil god. Qoyotíya, seat of my throne, you above all must remain pure. Do not speak his execrable name! Not a single drop of sheep’s blood must be shed for him. Do not feed his wicked spirit. You must never taint the holy altars of Diwiyána at Put’ó in his name. Her sanctuaries and groves are consecrated only to the Divine Kid, to Diwonúso, the holy calf. He it is who brings us the spring lambs, the baby goats. He and he alone it is who will always die to bring on the winter and the pruning of the vine, and with it the sweet wine of the new year!”