Starbook (19 page)

But first he summoned his wife and, deep into the night, they planned for the safety of their child and the future regeneration of their people. Only those who have accepted the death of their people can dream so clearly so miraculous a future. Only one who has accepted death can see so clearly that impossible things can be done beyond the limits that are there.

It fell to the mother to tell her daughter of her sudden departure. For that night, in the middle of decisive discussions, her father had said, quite suddenly, to her mother:

'It is time for her initiation into the mysteries of womanhood and of the goddess.'

Her mother looked at him with large almost sorrowful eyes.

'What a trying time awaits her, my dear, in the middle of her dreams.'

'But afterwards she would be a woman like no other, like her mother, a woman whose love not even kings deserve.'

'But the suffering and the dying.'

'Yes, my dear, and the shining face of a new woman when she emerges from the cave.'

'But the darkness and the loneliness,' said the mother.

'Yes, my love, and the loss of fear for ever and the light of wisdom in her spirit. And the strength of mind and awakened gold in her soul, gift of the goddess, if she is lucky.'

'But these things take a long time to show, if ever at all. Most of the girls go through the initiation but are not changed by it.'

'Not our daughter. Everything that has meaning works on her, affects her. She is ready. It may take time to flower in her, but she will drink the experience in as the earth drinks rain. Then one day, in times that call for greatness to emerge, times of crisis, when all around are paralysed by fear, the power of the goddess, the power of the cave, of our ancient ways, will rise in her, and she will be amazed at what unsuspected magic lives in her.'

'I know you are right, my love,' the mother said, 'but children do not always live up to the possibilities we see in them. They don't always bear the fruit that their early brightness promised. They don't always become the wise and balanced people that we hoped. Often they let their parents down and grow up to become quite ordinary, quite like the others. All the preparations, the initiations, the careful guidance of their early years disappear into them never to show forth again. I don't want to expect too much of our daughter and spend our old age shaking our heads in silent disappointment.'

'Have faith in her,' the father said. 'She is strange, I admit. She seems not to be of this world, I admit. But there is something in her that cries for great understanding of the mysteries of life, and that is a special gift in itself.'

'Many want to understand,' the wife replied, 'but few have the character for it. It takes character to receive, to wait, to listen, to obey, to learn, to grow, to master, to keep on the right road, to make mistakes and to correct them before they have gone too far, and to always remember what the most important things are in life, beyond wealth, success and glory. She might want to know and yet she might settle, as most people do, for the most ordinary average things. She might have no stamina to become a true woman. I fear her over-sensitivity; it might make her demand to be spoilt. It may make her ruthless only for things she wants, a soft and easy life. It may make her cruel. She may fail to see that the best things often are the hardest to see, and the most challenging. Or not. I have seen too many girls ruin their lives because they wanted what was easy, against the true whispers of their hearts.'

'Our daughter is not like that. She has her mother's spirit, but in a different form. She was given to us to teach us how a different way can also arrive in the kingdom of the blessed. Anyway, what have we to lose? If she turns out all right, she will be a gift to the world. If she doesn't she will have lived an interesting life, because of the rich creed of the tribe. Already she has seen enough and learnt enough to have plenty to think about for a whole lifetime. Already, anywhere else in the world, she would stand out as a special person. She knows more than she knows. I do not fear for her.'

The mother laughed and staring deep into her husband's eyes of mystery, she said:

'And what of all these rumours?'

It was now her husband's turn to laugh.

'We both know who is behind them. We both know why. Rumours can destroy only that which is not true and deep. Rumours are like rats that eat away at the foundations of a house. If the foundations are not strong the house will fall anyway, without the rats. These things can work for our ends. We must let them come and go. People are seen to be greater if they survive the lies told about them. Out of shame the world gives more stature to those it has maligned, but only if the maligned ones turn out to be worth their weight in gold. The integrity of our daughter will turn these rumours into great praise, into songs of legend, one day. Those who tear down a good name will be forced to build a palace for their future fame.'

'You trust your daughter so much.'

'And so do you. She has your special nature, but she is a strange gift.'

'I know,' the mother said, 'and that is why I am so hard on her. I love her too much and so I let her wander and dream her youth away. These may well be the best days, her purest days, under this difficult sun. I want it to last. I want her to forever live in these happy times when she doesn't know how happy she is. I want her not to pay any attention to the suitors, or worry about the healing work expected of her, or be troubled by the instinct of love growing in her, or be stirred by the whispers of the gods in her being. I want her always to wander by the river and to talk to snails and to laugh suddenly because happiness shakes in her like the midnight touch of a lover. I want her never to walk on broken glass, or to wake up in the dark, or to see the world turn into a cage, or to see the open road narrow and become a tiny path, or to see monsters everywhere, or to become full of doubt and fear, to become suspicious of those she loves, and to see evil in the good things in her life. I don't want her to drown in sadness, or to no longer see the sky with gladness. I don't want her to forget what love means, and to learn to hate her life because of all the troubles that living brings. But all I can do is prepare her in her youth, for all the troubles, and a love of truth. All I can do is show her a mirror in which she can see her future self, and be surprised by it, and rebel against it, and in rebelling take such twists and turns that will lead her to the right way. We will be gone by then. And she will look back and see these days again as magic days and not gone, but waiting. And she will find us inside her, smiling, growing in her rebelling, flowering in her realisation. And we will be in the best fruits of her life, her best deeds. One has to use such cunning ways to make the future yield the best fruits. But for now, I must show her the art of delays; show her, without showing her, how to make time a yielder, a teacher, a friend, a guide, an alchemist, a magician, a transformer, by the ways of delaying – one of our ancient ways which the new generations are forgetting. Now I must be the wicked mother, and bring swift unwanted changes into the sleeping life of our daughter. Why is this always the mother's task, my husband?'

And they both laughed deep into the night at the mysteries of these things.

On the wonderful day that the maiden was supposed to obey the injunction of the voice by the river, to keep her solemn promise to the mysterious voice heard in the riverwind; on the day that was supposed to be the most fateful, the most beautiful of her life, when the gods would show her favours she could hardly dream about; on the day that she had anticipated deeply but wouldn't allow herself to think about, and her anticipation made her quivery and nervous and full of joy at the slightest thing, so that sometimes she felt that some vital part of her being would suddenly ascend from her body in a daze of unequalled ecstasy; on that day her mother called her with a different voice, a terrible voice, a hard, harsh and earthy voice, and told her, quite brutally, that she was being taken away, immediately, on a journey.

The maiden was given no time to think about it and virtually no time to pack. She had to leave as she was. Something very urgent had come up, and for her absolute good she had to go.

'But mama,' cried the maiden, 'do I have to go now?'

'Yes, my dear, absolutely.'

'But I have barely woken up from sleep.'

'All the better. You must think then that you are dreaming.'

'Do I have to go this moment, now?' the maiden asked, incredulously.

'Yes, now, as you are. We should be leaving now as we are talking.'

'But does papa know about this?'

'Absolutely, of course.'

'What does he say?'

'It is his instruction, it is his will. I am merely carrying out his orders.'

'But why?'

'There is no time to explain. Take what you need now, the fewer things the better. Take them now or you will regret not paying attention later.'

In a state of complete confusion, her mind in disarray, her world seeming to collapse and dissolve about her, she quickly, in a daze, as in a dream, gathered together the items of clothes and other ordinary but invaluable things she would need. She was on the verge of tears, but she was too confused to weep. Her mind swirled, the notion of the end of things, the end of the world, swooped down on her. She didn't know what to think or feel. She was distressed beyond bearing at leaving so suddenly and breaking her promise to the god of the river who had favoured her with speech. This filled her with immeasurable sadness and a sense of panic. What would the god do? Would the god be angry with her for disobedience? Whom should she most obey, the voice of a god or the commandments of her parents? The maiden was in turmoil as she threw sundry items together into a bundle. How could she get word to the river to say she was being taken away so suddenly, against her will and desire? And if she got word to the river would the god listen to anyone else but her? And the messenger, how could they speak to the god when the god had chosen to speak to her alone? Could she – should she – explain all this to her mother? But there was no time, for time was collapsing all about her. Things were vanishing. She could not find half the clothes and items she sought. The walls, the house, the village, were vanishing before her gaze. Her life was disappearing. What was happening to her?

And her mother, thinking the daughter looked perplexed because of the suddenness of her departure, as well as the mysterious nature of her journey, began to speak to her a mother's words:

'My child,' she said, as she hurried her through the tying of her bundle, 'this life of ours is a strange story that only the gods can read.'

Time became very swift. It was as if she were in a dream and her life, was being altered by a god. The maiden, listening and not listening to her mother, felt as if a god were wafting her into a changed course. She felt as if she were being lifted out of one life and being placed in another. She felt, oddly, as if she were being obscurely assisted, as if propelled through time and space and destiny. It all felt strange. Suddenly she was under the sky. Then the village passed her by. Faces gazed at her, smiling. Then she found herself in her father's workshop. She was kneeling. He was pouring out a libation and invoking the gods, the ancestors and the masters. He was asking them to protect and enlighten his daughter on this journey that she was undertaking into womanhood and into the mysteries. The prayers had a powerful effect on her; they cast an astonishing enchantment on her mind. Spirits appeared before her gaze, and her mind faded a little, and the world passed her. The artworks bristling with prophecy and power dazzled her spellbound mind. The road led up to the hills. Soon her mother was beside her again, then she disappeared, then reappeared. She walked on the earth and then was borne along in a dream. The sun beat down with sharp rays like the swords of warriors. The heat and the sharp rays sent her mind revolving. For a long time, beyond the earth, above the river, high into the hills which she had never heard about, whose grottoes abounded with legends, she went, walking on light feet, listening to the wind, and to the eagles and sunbirds and the white-winged birds that flew over her head with softly whirring wings like the noises that precede the voice of prophecy in the oracles and the shrines.

She was led into a world beyond her dreams, into valleys of stone and wild green plant, rocks with faces like old masters gazing into this world from another one, vultures perched on high outcrops, strange animals that rustled across their paths. How long had they been walking, been borne along, by dreams, by insubstantial forms? Were they going to the world's end, to the domain of alien beings, to the home of spirits? Was she being taken on a ritual sacrifice, for some unknown reason? She had heard stories such as these often. A maiden is taken away because the god has chosen her to be sacrificed to avert a disaster fatal to the tribe. Did I come in peace and willingness? the maiden asked herself, and couldn't answer. She was so mesmerised. She felt as if she were going to her death, in order that the world could be renewed. She was the god's choice for the renewal of the world and the averting of catastrophe. She could feel now how she was borne along by a power greater than her. She dreaded it all, and yet was calm in her terror.

She loved the world she was leaving, she now discovered. And she realised that she had not looked at it enough. The hills were beautiful, rugged, harsh and mysterious. Here the spirits dwelt, she thought. They are the rocks. The hills were gods. The sky was clear, and bright, like shining bronze and gold, and profoundly blue, as if heaven's depth had lowered itself closer to the earth. The air was clear. She could smell all the fragrances of all the herbs and plants she loved. The place she walked on was old; old stories of tribes that had long vanished into dreams told themselves to her feet. And she saw bearded magi and young children, burdened and pregnant women, warriors and their stones, laughing fathers, and sons that must rebel in order to become men. She saw them in her walking state, vanished tribes, gone into the rocks, lingering in the invisible dreams in the air. She felt the blood of wars and ritual sacrifices.